


The Hungover Games

by lalakate



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-03-12 07:37:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 103,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13542756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalakate/pseuds/lalakate
Summary: When an unstoppable force meets an immovable object:  A modern AU in which two strangers meet at a bar and life as they never expected it ensues.





	1. Chapter 1

Her mouth tastes foul, her head rumbling so loudly she cannot bring herself to open her eyes. She buries her face into the pillow, breathing in its scent, savoring its muskiness, drinking in its appeal, reveling in its masculinity.

Masculinity? Her heart stops in a flash. Where the hell is she?

The room spins as she pushes herself up on wobbly arms, and she bites back a curse as a flash of pain sears behind her eye sockets. _Just blink, just breathe_ , she tells herself, and she reopens her eyes slowly, a sense of dread weighing down every muscle.

She is in a bedroom. One she doesn't know.

She checks herself quickly—confused and relieved by the fact that she is fully clothed save her shoes. Everything is fastened properly, even her jewelry has been left intact. The other side of the bed has not been slept in. What happened here? And where was she?

No other signs of life greet her as she examines her surroundings. This is clearly a man's room—a single man's room—the lack of feminine accouterments almost startling. It is a space of beiges and blacks, modern yet comfortable, and she searches for a picture, for anything, for evidence of who brought her to a place so alarmingly foreign. There—on the dresser—a photo of an older couple clearly celebrating an anniversary. Little good that does her, so she quickly dons her shoes as she scopes her surroundings further. Cologne, books by Michael Connely and George R. R. Martin, nothing of use in her fruitless quest for answers.

Nothing to ease her sense of overriding panic.

A breath to steady herself, a swallowing down of bile, and she opens the bedroom door, stepping into a small hallway still dim in the early morning. Is that coffee brewing, she wonders, now more fearful than ever that someone may lie in wait. She tosses her purse over her shoulder, ready to use it as a weapon, forcing legs to move forward as she makes her way around the corner. Her breath halts in her throat. There—on the couch—a man, the one who must have brought her here, sleeps soundly. She hears a drip behind her, and quickly turns her head, seeing a coffee maker hard at work with no one nearby. And then she spies it, what must be the front door, and she moves towards it stealthily, biting her bottom lip, hoping to make a clean get-away.

"Would you like some coffee first?"

His voice is lethargic, and she rounds on him quickly, staring into brown eyes still weighted with sleep.

"Who are you?" He sits up slowly, running hands across the back of his neck.

"I might ask you the same question." His easy attitude infuriates her as a throbbing in her temples forces her to close her eyes.

"Why did you bring me here?" she demands, determined to refocus, desperate to be in charge.

"You were drunk," he replies smoothly, standing and stretching with ease. "Terribly drunk, to be honest. I couldn't let you drive home, and you passed out cold in my car."

"So you brought me to your place, is that it?" she throws back, wincing at the volume of her own retort. "To take advantage of a woman who couldn't even say yes or no?" He chuckles to himself, walking past her with a sideways glance as he makes his way to the kitchen.

"If I had ravished you last night, do you think I'd have slept on the sofa in my sweats?"

Somehow what he says is logical, and she hates it. She needs to despise him, to make him responsible for the frightening vulnerability she feels.

"Would you like some coffee?"

Outstretched hands offer her a mug, the scent emanating from it too powerful to resist. She takes it from him without a word, inhaling the steam greedily.

"If you didn't ravish me, then why bother with me at all?" she questions, taking a halting sip. "Why not simply call me a cab?"

"And how was I supposed to know your address without rifling through your purse?" He rakes fingers through dark hair, giving her a look she cannot quite read. "I don't make a practice out of going through the personal belongings of strange women or bringing them to my flat," he states curtly. "But I couldn't leave you at the mercy of that one buffoon who was grappling you at the bar. So I gave you a ride."

A hazy image flits through her mind, the memory of meaty hands stroking what they shouldn't suddenly making her cringe.

"You told him I was with you—the other man at the bar." The words leave her of their own accord, fractured scenes breaking across her memory in murky grays.

"Ah, she remembers," he acclaims, moving to take his coffee to the couch, inviting her to do the same.

"Barely," she admits, staring at him warily before stepping any closer.

"Good God, if I didn't touch you last night when you couldn't have stopped me, I'm certainly not going to try anything when I've just put a steaming mug of coffee in your hand. Give me some credit."

She sits slowly, needing more answers even if they make her feel ashamed.

"I was really that drunk?" His arched brow answers her wordlessly. She sighs into her mug, mortified in more ways than one.

"What happened?"

His question hovers between them, finally attracting her gaze.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't look like a bar fly, and you're clearly embarrassed by the fact that you were so out of it last night," he observes, eyeing her measuredly. "Which leads me to believe that something clearly upset you yesterday."

"Getting a bit personal, aren't we?" she throws back, quelling a spell of nausea she refuses to acknowledge.

"Well, you did sleep in my bed last night." The trace of a grin breaks across his face, and she can't help the snicker of air that escapes her nostrils.

"And that gives you the right to pry into my personal affairs?" He sets his mug on the table, and leans back, crossing his arms across his chest.

"No," he returns, eyes narrowing in her direction. "But it does make me curious." She fights back the oncoming darkness, the stab in her chest, the hopelessness that shook her to the point of breaking just hours ago.

"My ex-fiancée just got married," she admits, attempting to chase away unwanted demons by airing her pain. "To someone else."

"Yesterday?" he queries, his brow creasing in concern.

"Yes. Yesterday."

He takes her mug from trembling hands, setting on the table next to his, daring to touch her arm.

"I'm sorry." A hot tear escapes unbidden, and she wipes it away in haste, swallowing back a torrent threatening to break free.

"I knew it was coming," she breathes, her tongue unnaturally thick. "I just never thought…" A shaky breath rattles from her lungs, her face dropping out of his scrutiny.

"You can't think when it comes to things like this," he offers. "Not reasonably, anyway. Feelings somehow always get in the way."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," she tosses back, eager to move the conversation from her situation to his. His silence beckons her gaze, and she stares into an expression she somehow clearly understands.

"My wife left me eight months ago," he states, grabbing his coffee for a gulp that has to burn all the way down. "For another man."

"I'm sorry."

"So was I." His reply catches her off-guard, and she stares at him in curiosity. "She left me for a rich man," he expounds. "One who could give her the kind of lifestyle I couldn't. I have come to the conclusion that if our marriage meant that little to her, it couldn't have been much of a marriage, now could it?"

"And you're over it? Already?" she questions, quirking her brow in doubt.

"No," he admits with a shrug. "But I will be."

"How can you be certain?" she presses, leaning towards him unconsciously. "That you'll get over it? What if you never do?" His chuckle surprises her, and he takes another large drink of his coffee, rubbing his lips together in the aftermath.

"Because I've decided I must," he answers, suddenly unable to look away from her. "Why should I hang on to the memory of her if she was more than willing to let go of me?" Her heart hammers in her ears, and she feels the sudden urge to vomit. "Oh, God, here," he intervenes, catching her off guard as he lowers her head between her legs. "Just breathe. Don't pass out on me again." She pushes him away with force, staring into a rather startled expression.

"I'm not about to faint," she argues, breathing in deeply.

"Are you sure?" he pushes back, touching her forehead warily. "You just turned rather green."

"That's because I feel sick," she asserts, drawing another deep breath, watching as he hops up from the couch with a curse. She hears him rummaging for something, and he returns with a bucket, setting it in front of her with an apologetic look.

"Just in case," he states with a shrug. Something about his expression strikes her as funny, and she begins to laugh, wincing at the discomfort it brings to both her head and stomach.

"What's so funny?" he asks, grinning in spite of himself.

"I have no idea," she muses, her merriment morphing into a groan that prompts him to rub her back.

"Please don't get sick," he pleads as she closes her eyes. "I just had the carpets cleaned last week." Her body begins to shake again, and they are laughing together. She gulps in air as tension and pain seek a release, the lightness of this ridiculous moment worth more to her than a king's ransom.

"Are you better?" he inquires, leaning in closer, attempting to gauge her complexion. "Do you need some fresh air or anything?"

"I'd kill for a ginger-ale," she replies, catching her breath as steadily as she can.

"Sorry," he replies. "Will _Sprite_ do?"

"Yes," she answers, looking at this man through very different eyes than she had just minutes ago. "A _Sprite_ will do nicely."

"I'll be right back, then." She listens to him pad back towards the kitchen, her mind twirling to catch up to this turn of events. Ice hits the bottom of a glass, and she feels her body respond physically to the sound of carbonation being poured. He is back then, offering her the drink, receiving a small smile for his efforts.

"Thank you," she breathes, noting how becoming a smattering of dark stubble is on a clean jaw.

"Don't mention it," he returns, watching her a bit too closely as she swallows. "Just protecting my investment."

"So your motives are strictly monetary?" she remarks, sipping more with pleasure, reveling at the feel of bubbles on her tongue.

"Strictly," he grins, warming her insides.

"So how do you explain stepping in and taking care of me last night?" she queries, imbibing in another drink.

"You'll get my bill," he retorts, making her grin yet again. "I am outlandishly expensive, I should warn you."

"So I'll have to break into my piggy bank?" she muses.

"Smash it to bits," he states with a shrug. "I have to pay my alimony somehow, now don't I?"

"Wait," she says incredulously. "Your wife left you for a richer man, but you have to pay her alimony?"

"Did I mention the rich man is a divorce lawyer?" he queries, smiling ruefully at the rounding of her eyes.

"No," she answers. "You somehow failed to mention that." She sighs, shaking her head. "Funnily enough, my ex is an attorney, as well."

"Here's to justice," he replies, picking up his mug and offering it up for a toast. She holds out her glass haltingly as they clink them together. "No—to us," he amends. "May we both be free of those who bind us sooner rather than later."

"Cheers," she whispers, drawing the glass to her lips slowly, watching as he downs what remains of his coffee.

"Shall I make you some breakfast?" he offers, laughing at the grimace that greets him upon the mention of food. "I'll take that as a _no_."

"You  should if you want to protect your carpet," she returns, relishing a slight relaxation just under her ribs.

"Then no it is," he agrees, leaning back into the cushions. "I'm Charles, by the way. Charles Blake."

"Mary Crawley," she says, fitting his name to his face, deciding it suits. "I suppose I should call for a cab."

"If you like," he muses. "But I'm happy to give you a ride if you're willing to wait a few minutes. I'm heading out for a jog at the park before it gets too hot."

"Too hot?" she asks. "It's only March."

"What can I say?" he quips. "I like the cold when it comes to running."

"Ugh," she retorts with a shiver, eliciting a hearty chuckle from her unexpected companion. "Give me the heat any day." A silence descends as one pair of eyes dances around the other.

"So which is it?" he finally asks, pressing his lips together. "A cab or a wait?"

"I can wait, I suppose," she replies, not quite ready to leave this unlikely sanctuary. "And finish my _Sprite_ and coffee."

"The breakfast of champions," he quips, standing slowly. He looks at her meaningfully, dropping his gaze momentarily to his feet. "Take as long as you need."

"Don't tempt me," she muses, knowing what memories await her at home. "I might take over your bedroom again and bar the door." A look of pained camaraderie meets her head-on.

"You don't have to bar the door," he states simply. "If you need the time and space, take it. You can rest while I run, if you like."

It strikes her as odd how tempting his offer actually is. He turns, moving towards his bedroom, brushing fingers through thick hair, giving her time and space to answer. And she leans back into the cushions, allowing her stomach to settle, wondering just what she will tell him when he comes back.


	2. Chapter 2

What in God's name had she been thinking?

Mary shakes her head at her own decision, trying to convince herself to simply pick up the phone and call a cab. What had possessed her to sit around a foreign apartment, nursing another cup of coffee on a sofa all too comfortable? She skirts around the answer, knowing it won't do her any credit. Yet she continues to sit, to sip her drink, to nuzzle into softened black leather that molds to her shape like a glove. It smells like his bed, she realizes—musky, earthy with a hint of spice that tickles something inside she would rather not identify. Warmth spreads through her like spiked cider, the smell of him more intoxicating than she should allow it to be.

How tempting it is to trade in her hurt for a reckless dalliance with dark eyes, to numb her wounds in the arms of one she could simply refuse to let in. A distraction, she tells herself. He would be nothing more than a temporary distraction. But distractions can get out of hand, complicated, and her life is messy enough as it is. Wounds are still too raw to consider someone else, especially a stranger who lugged her into his flat just hours prior.

A stranger named Charles Blake.

Murky images of her time in the bar push on eye sockets still tender, and she remembers him staring down a faceless man she is certain had been taller than he. Why take such a risk, she wonders, for her—a woman he didn't know? God, he could have easily ended up with a broken nose, a blackened eye, and for what? To protect her honor when she had tossed what dignity she had left aside with an abandon that makes her ill?

She pushes thoughts of yesterday aside with force, not recognizing herself in actions borne out of hot desperation. Had she really gone to his town home? On the day of his wedding? Had she actually begged him to reconsider? Her head swells at the thoughts of him, the man she always assumed would be hers, the one she was supposed to have married. Her stomach cramps as his face clarifies, the stupor on his features as she confessed her feelings cutting her with clean precision. He had moved on, had found someone who had made him happy, he told her. He wanted the same thing for her, and truly hoped she could find a man to love her in the manner that she deserved. She remembers how the muscles in her face twitched as she fought to hold them steady, how her feet went numb as breathing became a conscious act of will. The trickle of hope she had harbored dried up at that moment, and she had backed away without a word, empty to the point of pain, cold in places she never knew existed.

Dear God, she is going to be sick.

She grabs the bucket Charles left her, dry heaving into its confines until her ribs are sore. Breath comes in snatches, then gulps, and she wipes away tears falling for more than one reason. Damn. She didn't want to do this. Cries turn to sobs, and she drops the pail, clutching a pillow to her chest in lieu of arms to hold her. How empty her life has become, how bland her existence. Why had she ever given a man such power over her happiness? She promises herself she will not make the same mistake again.

Her nose is running, her cheeks blotchy, and she stands to locate some tissue, trying to find her way around a place still unknown. The mess of her life is reflected in the state of her face, and she gazes into the eyes of a woman she no longer wants to be. Where has she gone, the girl who relished a challenged, who loved a good argument? She has retreated into a shell of her own creation, one she believed to be stronger than reality had proven, its fragile nature rendering her more vulnerable than she had anticipated. Pain has left her limping, disappointment rendering her unsure. Her legs tremble, fingers chilling as she continues to stare at her own inferiority.

This is ridiculous. If he can move on, so can she. Charles was right. She will get over this man who has left her in such a state. She has decided. It is time.

The door clicks indicating his return, and she splashes water onto her face quickly, attempting to wipe away evidence of her misery. It is futile, she realizes, nearly laughing at her own absurdity as she remembers the state in which he found her last night. Surely this is preferable to being passed out cold in the car of a stranger. Although, she observes wryly, she felt no pain when she had been unconscious. There is something to be said for that.

"Mary," Charles summons softly, making her breath catch for reasons unknown. "Are you alright?"

She rounds the corner, plastering a smile on her face as she rakes fingers though unruly hair.

"I'm fine," she lies, swallowing down a vile aftertaste that nearly makes her wretch again.

"No, you're not," he observes, giving her the look of an older brother who has caught her rifling through his things.

"Are you calling me a liar?" she questions, crossing arms in front of her protectively.

"No," he returns. "I'm calling you a bad liar." Her stomach cinches.

"You're rather sure of yourself, aren't you?" she shoots back, not liking how well he reads her, uncomfortable by the fact that his opinion already matters.

"Hardly," he returns with a shrug. "But you're a mess, whether your pride will allow you to admit it or not. Now why don't you sit down and let me get you something to eat?"

"I don't appreciate being called a mess," she retorts, hating the fact his description is all too accurate.

"Well, you have improved since last night," he states. "I'll give you that." Hot prickles tease their way up her neck.

"You've never been mistaken for Prince Charming, have you?" she observes, eliciting a deep chuckle that irritates her even further.

"No," he affirms with a grin. "I can't say that they have. I'm too much of a mess, myself." Hands slide into the pockets of his running pants, and he tosses her a look she can't quite interpret. "Now how about that breakfast?"

Her stomach churns, her need for food outweighing everything else.

"Nothing too adventurous," she insists. "I'm not certain I can handle it." He grins, mussing his own hair in a gesture she somehow finds reassuring.

"I'll stick to scrambled eggs and toast," he assures her. "Unless something else sounds more appealing."

"No," she returns. "Eggs and toast sound fine." He pads into the small kitchen, picking up the empty coffee post and holding it up in her direction accusatorily. She shrugs, making him shake his head again, only this time he laughs. The sound is infectious, spilling into her rib cage prompting her to giggle in spite of herself. He rinses out the carafe in preparation to brew reinforcements, and she sits on a stool, dangling her empty mug from a long finger in a wordless demand.

"You're not greedy, or anything," he observes, pouring more than the allotted amount of grounds into the basket.

"Horribly," she admits, begrudgingly enjoying the display of teeth that meet her confession. "And self-absorbed, snobbish, and, oh yes—I evidently don't have a heart." She sets down the ceramic cup, twirling her finger around its edge. "At least that's what most people who know me will tell you."

"Well, at least you're not aloof," he states, raising dark brows exaggeratedly in her direction.

"Give me few minutes," she sighs. "I'm certain I can easily conjure up that character trait, as well." The smell of coffee warms her lungs, somewhat easing the residual ache in her head.

"As long as you stay away from brash, egotistical, and stubborn," he commands, taking a carton of eggs from the refrigerator. "I can't have you intruding on my list of accolades."

"I'm afraid I have the market cornered on stubborn," she muses. Was there no way to make the coffee brew faster?

"Then we could be in serious trouble," he smiles, pulling out a small whisk. "You know what they say about the meeting of two brick walls."

"No," she tosses back. "What do they say?" He stops mid-stride, holding a small skillet in the air as he ponders.

"You know, I'm not sure," he admits ruefully. "But it can't be good."

She chuckles again, ignoring the half-hearted protest in her temples, staring at his hands as he whips the eggs into a froth.

"I suppose you're right," she expounds. "It might prove to be a complete catastrophe. Although two brick walls could construct quite a fortress, I suppose."

"I hadn't thought of it that way," he admits, the lines of his face creased in thought. "Sounds rather impenetrable."

"Penetration is not always desirable, you know," she observes, realizing her faux pas the moment it slips from her tongue. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean—"

"It's alright," he laughs, as amused by the blush staining her cheeks as he is by her comment. "We are both adults. At least, I hope we are."

"Sometimes I wonder," she breathes, rubbing her forehead as her past attempts to intrude. He pours his concoction into the skillet, grabbing a wooden spoon as he studies her with blatant interest.

"Are you referring to me or to yourself?" he inquires, catching her off-guard. "When it comes to being childish."

"Me, of course," she answers promptly. "I'm the one sitting miserably hung-over while you are up getting your exercise and fixing breakfast."

"Signs of maturity, indeed," he returns, rolling his eyes in a gesture that makes her curious. "Believe me—I handled things with no more maturity than you when Freda walked out on me. Rejection is devastating. Anyone who tells you otherwise is not to be trusted."

"So are you to be trusted?" Her question makes him pause yet again, and for a moment the air between them thickens.

"That's debatable," he returns slowly. "But I won't lie to you." Her heart thuds against her throat.

"You make everything sound so final," she ponders softly, staring into her empty mug.

"She's engaged to the divorce lawyer," he states flatly. "And your ex is now married to someone else. It is final. The sooner you accept that, the better."

"I have accepted it," she insists as a surge of anger wells up from points unknown. "I just don't like it."

"You're not required to like it," he continues, unfazed by the flash of fire in her eyes. "Just don't let it control you."

"I control my own life, thank you," she huffs, sitting up taller, daring him to challenge her assertion.

"Do you?" he questions as he pops two pieces of bread into the toaster. "Do you really?" Heat fuels her insides as frustration mixes with embarrassment to form a cocktail she is not yet willing to drink.

"God, you're infuriating," she asserts. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"My mother," he shrugs, taking two plates from a shelf. "Continually. Remind me to add that to my list of endorsements, if you don't mind."

"Don't forget to include pig-headed while you're at it," she throws back.

"I believe that is a synonym for stubborn," he muses. "But it is more colorful. My mother would approve."

Damn-he already adores the spark of ire in her gaze for which he is clearly the designated target. This is not good.

"Somehow I feel the need to console her right now," she observes, both irritated and amused by the smirk he is wearing. "Your mother, that is."

"I'm sure she'd appreciate that," he retorts, scooping eggs onto dishes. "Shall I give you her number?"

"Yes. The sooner the better." The toaster dings on cue, and he quickly fetches both slices, laying her plate before her in a gesture of truce that smells all too tempting. "Bribing me with food?" she questions, unwillingly admiring dimples unleashed. "Sorry. The phone call to your mother is now inevitable."

"Perhaps I'll get off with a warning this time," he quips, tossing her a grin before he moves to sit beside her on the accompanying stool. "If she grounds me, I'll never let you hear the end of it."

"You forgot the coffee," she muses, containing a laugh as he rolls his eyes and gets up again.

"Glad to be of service, my lady," he teases, filling her mug just a bit too full as her eyes narrow in his direction. The eggs are good, better than she will admit, and she devours them, her body absorbing the nourishment at a rate she can feel.

"When did you last eat?" he questions, making her fork pause on its journey to her mouth. His inquiry hits home, and she searches her mind for an answer.

"Yesterday morning, I think," she admits sheepishly, remembering how unbalanced her stomach had been throughout the day.

"No wonder you were so drunk," he muses. "You had nothing inside to fortify you." The stark truth of his observation makes her shiver, and her fork clatters on to her plate. "God, I'm sorry." His apology is unexpected, the tenderness in his gaze unsettling at best. "Here you are grieving, and I am doing nothing but goading you. I deserve to be grounded for this."

His self-reprobation triggers something inside, and she touches his arm unconsciously.

"You've already admitted to not being Prince Charming," she manages, unprepared for this gesture of kindness when her defenses are non-existent.

"I think I'd be lucky to earn the status of toad at the moment," he states, her touch rattling nerves he had prayed would remain forever dormant. For a moment, she sees it. A cavern of vulnerability and loss just there in tilt of his head, peaking through the twitch of his mouth, shaded in the creases of his eyes.

"At least you haven't been downgraded to ogre," she offers, the texture of her voice commanding his attention as she removes her hand.

"Give me a few minutes," he shrugs. "That seems to be my designated role in life."

"I suppose that would make me the Ice Queen," she muses, her statement greeted by an unanticipated chuckle.

"I thought it was the Snow Queen?" he puts forth. "Or has my knowledge of children's literature failed me?"

"I left snow behind years ago," she asserts. "At least according to the men left frozen in my wake."

"Hmm," he returns. "Perhaps you need an ogre in your life. To serve as a body guard, I mean."

"For me, or for the men I encounter?" she inquires with a half-grin.

"I don't know," he admits. "You tell me."

"So ice doesn't intimidate you?"

"I told you earlier," he reminds her. "I like the cold. It stimulates me." Her breath catches in her neck.

"How big is your club?" she dares, a sense of halting warmth beginning to skitter down her legs. "I ask strictly for defensive purposes, you understand."

"Strictly," he shoots back, pupils darkening as he picks up his mug. "And it's big enough for the job, I assure you. Even for dealings with an Ice Queen." She feels heat in places she shouldn't.

"Bold words, indeed," she notes with a raised brow, crossing her legs. "I'm not sure if you're brave or just incredibly foolish,"

"Foolish, brash, and pig-headed," he insists, watching her too closely. "Ogre—remember?"

"And I thought you just needed a shower," she dares, laughing as he nearly spews out his coffee. He coughs as hot liquid goes down the wrong pipe, and she finally pounds his back, unable to wipe the smile from her face as he stares at her incredulously.

"Do you always attempt to kill men who cook for you?" he questions, daring another small sip to soothe his throat.

"Only the ogres who apply to be my body guard," she shrugs. "A test of loyalty, you understand." He shakes his head at her, more curious than he should be about what makes this woman tick.

"Perhaps I should build that fortress," he states partially to himself. "For my own protection." Words meant in jest hit with a force she knows he never intended.

"I did warn you, you know," she reminds him with a tilt of her head. Eyes bat away any visible disturbance, and she takes him in, wondering just what the hell they were playing at.

"That you did," he acknowledges willingly. He then extends his mug towards her, and she raises hers in tandem.

"What are we toasting this time?" she questions, not entirely sure she wants to hear his answer.

"Being impenetrable," he states, creasing his brow towards hers. "Unless you have something better to offer."

Her hand shakes internally, and she wonders not for the first time exactly what she does have to offer anyone. Her stomach hollows as she stares inside herself. The answer is too terrifying to consider.

"No," she answers, her voice dropping notably. "Nothing at all, I'm afraid."

Their mugs meet in a wordless contract, eyes locking in an unacknowledged challenge they both feel but immediately push aside.

"You may regret this, you know," she says, dropping her gaze as things are suddenly too personal. His smirk returns, and he grazes fingers through dark hair, disheveling it further, making him disturbingly attractive.

"I have a feeling we both will," he admits, sealing their bargain with a wink and a sip. "Cheers."


	3. Chapter 3

The sun hits her, moving through an unfortunate crack in the curtains she meant to see to days ago. She buries her face in her pillow, protesting morning's arrival with a grunt of denial. She is not ready for today.

_Coffee_ , she thinks, shaking her head at this change in established thought patterns. She always craves tea in her waking moments, its scent and mellow tang a balm to sluggish senses. How has coffee invaded her realm of safety, shoving aside her beverage of choice with an insistence she finds somewhat annoying?

She knows how. It has been happening for the past six mornings, ever since her first encounter with a certain brown-eyed stranger who got under her skin and irritated the hell out of her. One whose bed she found too comfortable and whose company she both craves and avoids.

Damn that Charles Blake.

He is somewhat annoying, more than somewhat, actually, yet her mind continues to circle back to him, to dimples flashed in her direction, to barbs and challenges she can't just ignore. Rebellious thoughts swim around her reluctant rescuer with the persistence of a shark sensing first blood, not understanding what it is about the man that won't let her go. God, she doesn't need this, not now. Not ever.

Damn it all again.

His texts arrive each morning, making her wake up faster than she would like, setting both her teeth and senses on edge. Her replies have been short, curt, biting, even, yet messages keep arriving, leading her down a trail of bread crumbs she follows with an willingness she finds more than a little disturbing. Her phone vibrates, and she sighs, knowing it's from him, well aware of the fact that she will rise to his bait. Why had she given him her number in the first place? What in God's name had possessed her to do such a stupid, stupid thing?

_Up and about yet, my lady?_

_Wouldn't you like to know, Lord Ogre_.

Her lips slide up in anticipation, knowing he will reply within seconds, wondering why she doesn't tell him just to get lost.

_Not really. But I thought I should alert you to the fact that it is supposed to be a lovely, sunny day today. I felt it was my sworn duty as an ogre in her Majesty's service to warn the Ice Queen of dangers lurking outside._

_Cheeky bastard. Don't you have anything better to do than annoy me?_

_Of course. But annoying you is my new favorite pastime._

Feet hit the floor, and she shakes out her hair, biting her lip as she sends her response.

_Then find another hobby, asshole._

_As you wish, my lady._

She smirks in spite of herself, enjoying the rush of adrenaline that pulls her from her bedroom. He always has to have the last word, never willing to let a statement go unchallenged, sometimes sending her a retort just before she falls into bed when she is too tired to think, wits too dull to reply. She always awakes the next morning ready to spar, contesting his claimed victory from the night before with a spark he feeds upon with gusto. This contest of wills needs to stop, and she will put an end to it she insists to herself yet again. But what a mind-numbing distraction it has become, tugging her relentlessly out of the mire of self-pity into a sparring arena too addictive for her own good.

_Soon_ , she promises herself. She will end this ridiculous association soon.

Feet lead her to the kitchen, and she wishes she had stopped to pull on socks as the shock of an uncarpeted floor prompts her to rest one foot on top of the other. She is still perfecting the art of coffee, pulling her press pot out of hiding after he returned her to her flat that fateful morning, using it faithfully with a begrudging gratitude she will never confess to him. That morning when her defenses hung at her knees, her face too transparent for comfort, her reason too frayed to process. The morning she awoke in his bed. The morning after the wedding. Her mug trembles in her hands as thoughts of another man show up uninvited.

"Go away," she verbalizes into empty space, tempted to call Charles for reinforcements, forbidding herself to do that very thing.

_Here's my number. Feel free to call or text if you need anything. Truly. I've been there. I know._

How gentle the caress of dark eyes on her face, how real their connection had felt after he had driven her home. A moment of sincerity had exploited her weakness, and she couldn't stop the words that spilled from her lips.

_Thank you. Would you like mine, as well_?

"Idiot," she whispers to herself, rummaging her scalp in the frustrated need to touch something.

_Idiot,_ she texts, feeling a wicked satisfaction speed down her legs as she touches the "Send" button.

_You must be feeling particularly generous today. You've already bestowed three titles upon me this morning, and I haven't even had breakfast yet._

She rolls her eyes both at him and herself, dangling her phone haphazardly, feeling the words under her fingers she has texted to him every day.

_Eggs and toast again, Lord Ogre?_

For some odd reason, it is something she has to know.

_I'm actually feeling more like an English Muffin and a Bloody Mary at the moment. Care to join me?_

God, he has some nerve.

_I haven't even showered yet._

_We ogres don't mind a bit of scent lingering about. Besides, I have a shower you can use. In fact, I'm fairly certain you used it once before. Yes…you even left behind evidence._

Her red panties. Damn. She will never hear the end of this. An odd tingling encircles her chest, toying with areas she refuses to associate with him, blocking out thoughts that could drive her to distraction. Once was more than enough, thank you.

_I much prefer my own._

"Let's just see what he does with that one, Andromeda," she speaks aloud, drawing the attention of her feline companion lounging by the window.

_Of course you do. It probably has an "Arctic" setting._

He has obviously had more than one cup of coffee already. Damn that bloody wit of his.

_Sub-arctic, actually. Lethal to ogres. I'd stay away if I were you._

_You forget we ogres have thick hides. Speaking of which, I'd better keep mine in shape. Time for my ru_ n.

She chuckles to herself.

_I knew you'd run scared eventually. All men do after associating with the Ice Queen._

She feels an instant pang that hurts too much, wishing she could take back that text, slamming her phone down on the counter. Why could she never leave well enough alone? Of course he will run away eventually. It is inevitable. She is destined to be alone. Breakfast and coffee are consumed with a haste that leaves her flat, and she stares at the calendar, swallowing down a sickness that makes her tremble.

She can get through this day. She will get through this day.

Perhaps Charles has the right idea. A run sounds quite cleansing. She is out the door within minutes, still shivering through layers applied to fend off the wind's bite. The park is three blocks over, and she jogs lightly, seeking distraction with a gnawing hunger. She breathes in the signs of green awakening, relieved to see it is still too cold out to draw a crowd. Facing anyone is the last thing she wants right now. Thank God the place is nearly deserted. Music is queued, and she loses herself in its rhythm, pounding hurt into the pavement, leaving regret two steps behind. Wind whips though hair that has escaped her hat, chilling her neck, prompting her to run faster, prodding her forward, ever forward. Eyes close on a straight stretch as she tries to blot out his face, blue eyes that have always penetrated too far, lips that left her starving for more then walked away. But he belongs to another now, he has for some time. And she owns her part in his decision, knowing she hesitated too long, despising her reluctance to commit that cost her everything.

Ice Queen, indeed.

Even her own thoughts condemn her, giving her no room to escape. _Don't look back_ , she instructs herself repeatedly. It is over. She has survived. That is what matters. That's all that can matter.

A noise grabs her attention, and her eyes fly open in shock, seeing a horse rear up just in front of her. The world spins out of focus, her mouth dry, her limbs frozen. Then she is hit, not by the horse, but by someone, knocked to the grass with a force that just hurts.

"Ow!" she manages as the air is shoved from her lungs, wondering if she actually heard something pop.

"Is she alright?"

It's the rider, she determines, asking about her. She inhales, summoning the energy to answer when—

"She's fine. Just startled and perhaps shaken up a bit. But I'll see to her. No worries."

That voice…it can't be…it's… Oh, God.

The horse and rider move on, and she is left with just him poised on top of her, pinning her to the grass.

"You are alright, aren't you?" There is actual concern this time, making her heart swell in tenderness even as it pisses her off.

"And if I'm not?" Eyes flash each other a challenge, and that blasted smirk returns, battling for dominance with a touch so gentle it makes her ache.

"Then I suppose I would have to carry you home," Charles retorts, much too satisfied with himself for her comfort. "Ogre style."

"Dare I even ask?" He pulls some leaves from her hair, the feathering of his breath across her cheekbones sending shivers to all the wrong places.

"Over my shoulder," he quips with a grin. "Bottoms up." She shoves him off of her body—hard.

"In your dreams, ogre," she huffs, allowing him to help her up, wincing as something stabs her in the knee.

"Trust me. I can dream better than that." Damn those chocolate kiss eyes with lashes practically dripping with sensuality.

"That's good as they'll have to keep you satisfied at night." A hearty laugh startles her, and she sees him bending over, grinning deliciously from ear to ear.

"God, woman," he returns. "You're still throwing icicles even when you're having difficulty putting pressure on that ankle." She bites down at his words, pain shooting up her leg as she attempts to prove him wrong. "It may be ogre-style after all," he quips, his smile fading at her obvious distress. "I'm not certain you can walk very well."

"You wouldn't dare." The vulnerability staring back at him nearly renders him speechless, but he has to toy with her. It is their means of communicating, a language spoken just by them. One he understands on a level that renders him unsteady.

"Do you really think you can stop me, my lady?" Her chest rises and falls much too fast to fool anyone.

"Do you really want to try me?" He can keep up this ruse no longer. Not when she looks like a cornered rabbit with a wounded foot.

"No," he returns softly. "Not under these circumstances. Can you walk at all?" Her face shifts in surprise, her mind rushing to keep up with this man she can't out pace for the life of her.

"I think so," she returns, crying out as she applies pressure to an angry leg. "But it's my knee, not my ankle that's killing me."

"God, I'm sorry," he attests, moving to her side just under her shoulder. "I tackled you harder than I thought."

"Seeing as you saved me from getting mauled by a horse, I'd say the damage is minimal," she assures him, struck by this show of vulnerability.

"Still," he argues, shaking his head as he leads her forward. "The last thing I want is to cause you more difficulty. And an injured knee…" T

hose eyes—God. They look like those of repentant boy afraid of being grounded. An odd tugging sensation hits her squarely in the chest, and she bites her tongue to hold back a barb meant to defend herself.

"Don't worry about it," she states. "Ogres aren't particularly known for their grace in battle." That pulls a self-depreciating smile from him.

"I'm not particularly known for my grace in anything."

"That doesn't surprise me." The dent in his cheek tempered by marked guilt in his eyes is far too potent. She must bolster her defenses—immediately. They begin to hobble towards the park exit, his nearness both a balm and an irritant. His scent hits her again, the one from his bed, the one still attached to a blouse she has yet to wash. She won't tell him she holds it close when thoughts of one she lost attack in the lost hours of morning. She'll never admit that it excites parts of her still needy amidst emotions she desperately tries to rein in.

"My car is close," he assures her, taking on most of her weight as she hops more than walks. "Did you drive or walk here?"

"Jogged," she replies, hissing through her teeth as she bears too much weight.

"Then I'm driving you," he insists, hating the tight set of her jaw that reveals just how uncomfortable she is. "You're barely going to make it up your stairs as it is."

His car is the most welcome sight she has seen in days, and she allows him to assist her inside, exhaling in relief as she sinks into the seat.

"Don't think that this elevates you to Prince Charming level," she clarifies, hearing a deep chuckle just beside her as he revs up the ignition. "I carry no such delusions of grandeur," he responds. "I'm just trying to reach toad status. Remember?"

"Ahhh," she voices, too late to hold back an audible wince that punches him in the gut.

"Perhaps I should take you to the hospital instead?"

"No," she fires back. "It's just a twisted knee."

"It acts more like a nasty sprain," he argues, casting her a sideways glance.

"And if it is, what will they do for me at the hospital?" she demands. "Wrap it up and demand I keep it elevated? I can do that quite well on my own, thank you." The set of her brow is firmer than his mattress.

"We may need to ice it," he puts in, turning carefully onto her street.

"Unnecessary," she quips, trying to lighten the mood unsuccessfully. "Don't forget who you're dealing with here." He puts his vehicle into park, turning to face her with an intensity from which she cannot turn away.

"Trust me," he hums. "I never forget."

It just hurts, every step up, each hop towards her door. He extends his palm wordlessly, and she fiddles in her pocket until she locates her keys, handing them over with a reluctance that makes him shake his head. They make their way to her sofa, and she practically falls into it, scrunching her face at an aftershock of pain she had not anticipated.

"No sudden movements," he instructs, raising his brows into his hairline. He grabs pillows unceremoniously, stacking them until a veritable tower of comfort sits before her.

"I'm hardly Rapunzel, you know," she jokes, breathing in as his touch on her leg catches her off-guard.

"Sorry," he returns, misreading her reaction. She doesn't correct him, pushing back warmth that feels destined for her cheeks. Her shoe is gingerly removed, and he slowly rests her knee on the pillows, lines of worry etched across his face. "I'd say it's most definitely sprained," he observes, rolling up her leggings with the care of a surgeon, exposing her knee's bloated state. "Perhaps worse. And yes—an ice pack is in order, your majesty. Might I inquire where your stash your supply?"

"In the freezer, like all good frozen monarchs," she retorts, biting her lower lip to stifle a groan.

"Stay," he orders, moving to her kitchen, nearly tripping over her cat.

"Don't worry," she hisses in discomfort. "I am by no means inclined to move."

"I see you've employed another body guard," he quips, kneeling to pet the orange and cream patched feline.

"Andromeda," she informs him, summoning the cat with her fingers until she snuggles in beside her on the sofa.

"Andromeda? Really?" His stare is almost comical, the ice pack in his grip nearly forgotten.

"And what's wrong with that?" she questions, narrowing her gaze decidedly as she grits her teeth.

"There's nothing wrong with it, per say," he returns with a shrug. "But don't you think it's a bit grand for a cat?"

"You're obviously a dog person." Her expression casts judgment, her eyes following him warily as he sits on her table across from her, covering her injury with a cold pack that chills her on contact.

"I actually prefer cats," he corrects, surprising her yet again. "But I think they should have practical names."

"Like Fluffy?" she muses sarcastically through teeth beginning to chatter.

"Like Cat," he retorts, locating a nearby blanket and wrapping it around her unceremoniously.

"That's what I like about you, Lord Ogre," she drones. "Your colorful imagination." He flashes her a smile she can't quite interpret, distracting her by licking his lips.

"You might be surprised." He stands and looks around the room, rubbing restless hands together. "I really think you should have that checked by a doctor," he attempts. "It could be worse than a sprain, Mary, and you don't want to mess with an injured knee."

"If it's no better in the morning, I'll go," she relents, squeezing her eyes against painful throbbing.

"Do you have anyone who can stay with you today?"

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," she argues.

"Please," he fires back. "You can barely adjust yourself on the couch without flinching. There is no way you can do this on your own." She exhales through flared nostrils, unwilling to admit he is right, afraid of pushing back too hard.

"I'll manage."

"In other words, no one," he observes, making her shift uncomfortably. "Do you at least have any crutches about?"

"No," she admits, dropping her gaze, her life suddenly feeling very small.

"Well, I do," he replies. "I'll just run over to my flat and fetch them, as well as a bag and my laptop."

"Wait—your laptop?" she questions, stopping him a mere breath from her door. "And a bag?"

"Someone has to take care of you," he shrugs, causing her hands to fidget. "My laptop will allow me to get some work done, and I'll need some things from home if I'm to spend the night on your sofa. Oh, and I do believe I have some decent pain medication left over from when I had two wisdom teeth extracted a few weeks ago." Her blood races too quickly to her head.

"I don't remember inviting you to spend the night," she huffs, glaring at him incredulously, the promise of pain medication more seductive than it should be.

"That's good," he tosses back with a grin that singes every nerve. "Because I don't remember asking."


	4. Chapter 4

_Is my lady remaining immobile upon her throne like a good little monarch?_

It is the third text he has sent since leaving but half an hour ago to fetch crutches and an overnight bag. She sighs into empty space, begrudgingly touched by his concern.

_Stop annoying me, Lord Ogre, and get on with whatever it is you're doing over there._

_Just packing the necessities, my lady._

He is staying over—Charles Blake—at her flat—a man she barely knows and finds more attractive than she should. A part of her is relieved, another part terrified, and all of her is more than a little miffed he assumed she would agree to his suggestion with a simple cock of his brow and a flash of white teeth. God, he has some nerve. And he will be here—with her—alone—all night. An odd cocktail of anticipation and unease speeds across her limbs, making her tingle before she chastises herself for her own foolishness. Her knee is the size of a water balloon. If that isn't a deterrent to inadvisable attraction, she doesn't know what is.

_This little monarch will freeze your nether regions if you dare disturb her rest again, Lord Ogre. I suggest you sever this line of communication immediatel_ y.

A small smile turns into a grimace as she adjusts her position, her injured knee throbbing in spite of her ice pack.

_With all due respect, your majesty, there are areas of an ogre even an Ice Queen is powerless to freeze._

If he only knew.

_Try me._

She realizes too late what her response implies. What the hell was she thinking? She holds her breath, anticipating his comeback, wondering how far he will dare to press this exchange.

_Sounds like a rather slippery business to me. I shall employ my largest ice pick to make certain I am up to the task_.

Her mind strays where it shouldn't, making her all too aware of her own body.

_And if you should start an avalanche, Lord Ogre?_

Her face warms decidedly. God—what is she playing at encouraging this line of conversation?

_Then I shall find myself buried to the hilt, I suppose._

Damn.

_Watch your step, Lord Ogre. Approaching an Ice Queen inevitably leads to a downfall of great magnitude._

_Then it's a good thing that this ogre is well-equipped for the job._

She laughs into emptiness, silenced by an unexpected stab of pain that squeezes her eyes shut. It pulses and pierces, and she shifts slightly again, moving her leg in a delicate attempt to appease its anger. She breathes in and out until the worst subsides, allowing her torso to ease back into the cushions one muscle at a time. She wills herself to breathe in evenly, exhaling in an unvoiced tempo. There—that's better. That's better.

_Braggarts rarely live up to their own accolades, you know. I haven't met a man yet who is as well-equipped as he claims to be._

Her knee seizes yet again, making her double over, panting desperately for relief. She counts to ten, numbering each breath, despising the fact that she is in such a vulnerable position. It is then she remembers why she fled to the park in the first place, the park where her knee was injured—the park where Charles had actually saved her from a far worse injury. Today is his birthday—Matthew's birthday.

Her head begins to pound in time with her knee. One wound is more than enough. She has called Matthew faithfully on this date over the years, even before they started dating, crooning a ridiculous dirge rather than the traditional birthday song, teasing him relentlessly about being older than she. But today, today he is on his honeymoon, with his new wife. There will be no more birthday phone calls, no more silly dirges, no more good-natured admonishments that he didn't deserve such teasing, especially from her. She feels something precious wither up inside, something she still isn't certain she can live without, as if a part of her spirit has been severed away. But she has to go on—there is no choice in the matter.

Thank God Charles is bringing that pain medication. Thank God she won't be alone tonight.

Her phone vibrates, but she can't look just yet, needing her wits about her when she takes up his gauntlet, wanting a sharpness of mind lost in the burrows of pain. Jagged angles wane into dull throbs, and she closes her eyes yet again, purposely relaxing her limbs in an attempt to wade this out. She can handle this. She has to handle this.

It vibrates again, and she stares at the screen, knowing Charles may be getting worried, wanting to salvage what remains of her pride. She stares at the screen, viewing both messages at once.

_Your observations are true about mere braggarts. But you should know that ogres always live up to their claims._ And then the second: _Are you alright? You didn't throw a knife at me for that remark, and that has me concerned. You haven't moved off of your perch, have you?_

Her heart pounds a bit too loudly for comfort.

_Don't be so dramatic, you presumptuous idiot. Just because I don't bite every time you beckon doesn't mean anything is wrong._

Why she just can't offer him a simple thank you is beyond her at the moment.

_There's my Icy Monarch. If you're doing that well, I may shower while I'm home._

_Take a bloody bath, for all I care. Staying over is all your idea, anyway._

She bites her lip as a wave of nausea hits her out of nowhere.

_Which is why it is ingenious, my lady._

She drops her phone on the table, fearing she is about to be sick. Her head falls into her hands, her arms shaking as a cold sweat peals across her upper lip and forehead. She has to get to her toilet immediately. The very act of trying to stand nearly makes her vomit on the spot, and she makes it up on one shaky leg, praying she can actually hop to her final destination. The loo seems light years away, and she now wishes she had asked Charles to come back immediately. What in God's name had possessed her to tell him to take his time?

Just one step at a time, she instructs herself, fighting down dual urges to both cry and heave. She can do this—she must do this. The first hop is terrifying. The second make her wince all over. The third knocks her flat.

She hits the floor with a thud, crying out audibly as a crippling pain shoots up her leg. Teeth bite into her lip, drawing blood as tears flow stubbornly down her cheek. She tastes bile pulsing up her throat, and she pushes herself backwards with her arms, scooting towards the toilet with the speed of a wounded turtle. Her stomach makes her pause, and she is certain she is going to become ill all over herself. She concentrates on breathing, on holding whatever wants to come out inside, on scooting herself slightly closer to her goal. That's when her phone vibrates again. It is out of her reach, and she cannot go back, not when each centimeter is a struggle, each movement a hard-earned victory. She hears it again. He is getting concerned. She is both thrilled and mortified at the prospect of his imminent return, knowing she needs him, hating the notion of him finding her in such a state.

"Move," she instructs herself audibly, grunting with each push as tired arms begin to tremble. She backs into the loo, feeling cool tile under palms, breathing a silent prayer of thanks that she made it this far. Her fingers grab cold porcelain, and she tugs herself closer, leaning her face over the rim as best she can when sitting on her knees is not an option. She made it…just in time. And that's when it all goes to hell.

* * *

 

Mary is not replying.

Something is wrong, he knows it as well as he knows his own name. Charles stares at his phone, willing a text from her to appear on his screen, waiting for whatever insult she will hurl at him next. But it doesn't come. He curses under his breath, tugging his discarded shirt back over his head before sliding back into his shoes. His shower will have to wait until later. She needs him—he is certain of it. God only knows what sort of idiotic maneuver she attempted as soon as he walked out the door and left her to her own devices.

Why does she feel such a need to prove herself to him, to make certain he doesn't think her weak or even the slightest bit vulnerable? Never mind that those attributes could be used to describe himself perfectly. He just hopes that she hasn't injured herself further. That damned stubborn streak of hers.

He chuckles at the irony of it. She is the one person who can challenge him on this front, and he's rushing to her aid, understanding she may not respond well to his sudden appearance even as he pulls his door shut. Well, that's just too damned bad. He's not going to let her wallow in self-pity or suffer further injury on his watch.

No—not on his watch.

How the hell did he come to feel so responsible for a woman he has known a mere week? God, he's losing his bloody mind. But she still isn't replying. Damn. He is in his car within seconds, speeding towards her flat, wondering just what he will do if she is simply ignoring him. It is possible, he knows, she who describes herself as an Ice Queen and claims to devour men. But he recognizes bravado when he sees it, and he can't quite get over the nagging sensation that there is much more to this woman than she shows to the world. It still doesn't explain why he has become so attached to their conversations or has appointed himself her impromptu guardian. Chocolate eyes and velvet lips may have something to do with it, as could porcelain skin and a sharpened wit that keeps him on his toes. He has never felt so challenged by a woman, a fact which both intrigues and attracts him much more than it should. This odd attachment is probably not a good idea for either of them.

But God, he is attracted. Too attracted.

He leaps out of his car, sprinting up her stairs with crutches in his hand—trying to catch his breath as he knocks with force.

"Mary!" He pounds on the door repeatedly, hearing nothing in return, cursing himself for not insisting upon a key before he realizes he never locked the door in the first place. He tries the handle, both relieved and terrified when he feels it give beneath his touch. If something has happened to her… "Mary! Are you alright?" He bursts into the flat, panting audibly, half-panicked to see she is not on the sofa. "Mary!"

"I'm in here."

The voice is weak but steady, and he rushes towards the sound, his relief at seeing her unharmed tempered by her appearance. She is half-lying on the floor next to her toilet, her complexion paler than usual, her eyes red and puffy.

"God," he breathes, rushing to her side and dropping to the floor beside her. "Are you alright?"

She refuses to look at him, keeping her gaze fixed on her shoes, rubbing her forehead in a slow, circular motion.

"I've been better, thank you," she manages, attempting to steady her voice, despising that it's a nearly impossible feat.

"I'll get you some water and a cool cloth," he insists, dashing off to the kitchen with lightning speed. He returns nearly as quickly as he left, laying the cloth on her forehead, pressing the glass into her hand.

"Drink," he insists, noticing the tremor in her hands as she obeys without question. The fact that she hasn't the will to argue concerns him further. "Has your stomach recovered yet?" His question finally draws her gaze.

"I think so," she answers, pushing herself up on wobbly arms, resting her back against the wall. "But I can't swear to it."

"That's very wise," he returns softly. "It's been my experience that whenever I've sworn upon anything, fate sets out to prove me wrong." He sees her mouth twitch. "What's so amusing?" he questions, watching her lick her lips deliberately.

"Nothing," she answers. "It's just that I would assume you were used to being proven wrong by now."

"There's the dagger buried in my chest," he quips, his voice still gentle as he dares to touch her arm. "I knew you couldn't keep it hidden for too long."

"I should hate to disappoint my chief ogre," she voices, her tone still gravelly and weak.

"This ogre deserves a lashing for leaving you as I did." She stares at him earnestly, and he sees something new there, something deceptively fragile fortified with steel.

"No, you don't," she responds. "You don't have to be here with me at all, Charles." His heart does an odd somersault.

"Of course I do," he tosses back, unsure of what to do about a sudden unsteadiness seeping into his veins. "I'm the one who knocked you flat in the first place, remember?"

"Ah, that's right," she half-grins, her eyes still partially-drugged. "Remind me to see to that flogging when I'm quite recovered. I want to do it properly."

"As you wish, my lady," he breathes, his eyes dropping to the floor, his hand still on her arm.

"Shall we get you to bed now? You need some rest."

"I can't," she protests feebly, staring down at her soiled top in disgust. "I need a shower. I'm filthy."

"I can fetch you a clean shirt for now," he offers. "And you can clean up after a nap. I daresay you need one badly." She swallows audibly, daring another sip of water, hiding her eyes from him again.

"I'm sorry you have to see me this way," she states, her unease spanning the short distance between them.

"I've seen you worse, actually. Remember?" That remarkably instigates a grin, and she shakes her head

. "I must have been in a dreadful state if it was worse than being covered in vomit."

"I wouldn't say, covered," he corrects, tilting his head. "Perhaps crusted would be a more appropriate choice."

"Ugh," she grimaces, making him worry she is about to become ill again. "Why does that sound even worse?"

"No doubt because it came out of my mouth," he answers with a flash of his brows. He hears her exhale, her direct gaze boring under his skin.

"I'm certainly adept at making an impression, it would seem." The truth of her assertion nearly causes him to stumble over his own thoughts.

"You have no idea," he replies, scooting in closer in spite of his better judgment. She stares at him hard.

"Why are you even here, Charles?" The question cuts through marrow and bone, punching him squarely between the ribs as realization he is not ready to handle begins to settle in.

"Annoying you has given my life a renewed purpose," he grins, brushing aside thoughts that press in too close, watching her smirk at his answer. "I was in need of a productive hobby, and you kindly provided me with one."

"Did your mother ever drop you on your head?" she shoots back, making him laugh audibly.

"Only once or twice," he retorts with a shrug. "She thought it might improve my disposition."

"If this is an improvement, you must have been born an orc," she replies, closing her eyes as her knee cramps yet again.

"Urukai, actually," he tosses back, allowing her to squeeze his hand as her body contorts and clinches. "I've come further than you think. Perhaps I'll make toad status yet."

She grits her teeth, leaning into him as he lays his hand on her back.

"That's it, Mary," he instructs softly into her ear. "Breathe your way through it. It will pass. I promise." Sweat breaks out across her neck and forehead, and she allows him to pull her in closer, to support her, to inhale and exhale in time with her until she finally leans her head back against the wall.

"Thank you," she whispers, giving him an odd look, one that makes him uncomfortable in all the wrong places.

"Don't thank me," he insists. "I'm the one who caused this injury, remember?"

"Ah, yes," she manages, speaking with less conviction that she has in the past. "What else can I expect from an ogre?" Her eyes pin him squarely to his spot.

"How about transportation to your bedroom," he puts forth, moving up on to his haunches to break whatever spell she is unknowingly casting. "I'm certain you're ready to get off of this floor. Can you wrap your arms around my neck?"

"Does this approach towards women actually work for you?" she returns, wincing as his arms move under her knee.

"Only with partially-crippled Ice Queens," he quips, heaving her off the floor and moving towards what he assumes is her room. The feel of her against him opens a chasm he had sealed off, and he ignores the smell of recent illness, breathing in the soft lavender of her hair, wishing he could take away her pain. He could easily get lost in this woman. And that's something he cannot risk again. He deposits her gently on the edge of the bed, helping her adjust her body into a position that will allow her to change, cramming unsteady hands into pockets as he puts on his best face.

"Where can I find a replacement?" he questions, following her pointed finger to a tall chest of drawers.

"Second drawer down," she instructs, biting her lower lip as he rummages through her things.

"A Bon Jovi t-shirt?" he observes, watching her shrug in response.

"Does that surprise you?"

"Somewhat," he answers, pilfering through other tops. "I would have pegged you as more of a smooth jazz kind of girl."

"I'm full of surprises," she retaliates, giving him a look he can't quite read. "You should know that by now."

"Speaking of surprises, how about this one?" He cannot help but smile as he holds it up for her approval, watching her roll her eyes in his direction.

"You would choose Mickey Mouse," she observes flatly.

"There's something deliciously ironic about seeing the self-proclaimed Ice Queen being adorned in mouse-ears," he returns smoothly with a wink.

"Try to contain your excitement at the prospect," she quips, shifting slowly. "It doesn't become you at all. And hand me the damned shirt, for God's sake."

"As you command," he drawls, tossing the shirt to her before moving towards the door. "Yell at me when you've changed."

"How kind of you to grant me permission," she tosses back tartly.

"Kindness is my middle name," he asserts, making his exit before she can formulate a reply. Pent-up air is released as he shuts the door behind him, and he runs a hand across his scalp, seeking answers from a well of confusion. What is he playing at here? And why does he continue to circle around this woman as a moth does a flame, he who was nearly charred to a crisp only months ago? He who knows better. The last time he let a woman get too close, he married her, and God knows how disastrous that turned out. He is better off keeping Mary at arms-length, regardless of how gorgeous she is, no matter how her wit lights up something inside him that has been dormant for too long. Letting this get out of hand is not a good idea…it's a horrible one, in fact. But she is quickly becoming an addiction, a delicious compulsion he knows he will not give up easily.

"Idiot," he chastises himself, biting his lower lip as he turns his gaze back to her bedroom door. "You're a bloody idiot, Blake."

He shakes his head at his own folly, locating a banana on the counter, searching for a napkin when he hears her call his name. His body's response to the mere sound of her voice gives him a moment's pause. _Get it together, man,_ he instructs himself, knowing his admonition is falling on deaf ears. Damn—this is not going to be easy. She just might prove to be his personal downfall.

"Yes, that is much better," he muses with forced ease as he enters her room, unable to keep from grinning at the picture she makes. "Disney suits you well."

"Perhaps you can hand me my magic mirror," she retorts, flicking her brow in a mock warning.

"Along with your poisoned apple?" he inquires. "Don't worry. You're still the fairest of them all, even with a swollen knee."

"And with a smiling rodent on my chest," she muses as he helps her maneuver under bed sheets. "Now I know you're toying with me." He props her knee upon a stack of pillows, handing her the banana before fetching her water glass from the loo. "Watch out, Lord Ogre, or I'll demand your heart be delivered to me in a box."

"Don't tell me you keep a huntsman hidden around here," he quips in an attempt to quell a well-aimed dart.

"Huntsmen, orcs and ogres," she states. "A girl can never be too prepared."

"And not a prince in the lot," he notes, trying to keep conversation at a safe level. "Rather unusual for a queen."

"Princes can't be trusted." Her tone bites, her eyes daring him to venture any closer. "They're the ones who hand you your heart in a box, you know," she continues, her edges softening imperceptibly. "Huntsmen are actually harmless." Pain of another kind glares from lines of her face, lines he resists caressing to ease their burden.

"And ogres?" he dares, watching her eyes refocus. "Are we harmless as well?"

"Hardly," she voices, looking more vulnerable than he has ever seen her, stealing his retort before it ever reaches his lips. "Ogres are unpredictable." Palms begin to sweat as his pulse pounds against his neck.

"How so?" He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth.

"They appear so untouchable and boorish, at first," she confesses, her eyes flitting from restless hands to his face. "But they have a gentle side, a loyal side." She pauses to clear her throat and adjust her features. "When they're not being arrogant assholes, that is." He releases a breath had hadn't realized he was holding.

"Just to clarify," he returns with a nod.

"Just to clarify," she echoes before her face scrunches tightly yet again.

"I thought you might like something for the pain," he offers, producing a pill bottle from his pocket. "But you must eat the banana first. There's no way I'm allowing you to take one of these on an empty stomach." She nods weakly, accepting the banana without a word.

"Alright. I'll manage." The fight is seeping out of her—he sees it in how she drops back onto the pillows and wrestles with weighted eyelids. He waits quietly until she finishes eating, helping her steady the water glass in her reclined position, watching her settle in for a rest.

"I'll be just out here," he assures her, unable to take his eyes from her as she grants him a weary smile. "In case you need…anything."

She won't allow herself to need him, he understands. Wounds are still too raw, her pride still lies in shambles, and she is just that stubborn. He shouldn't allow himself to form a need for her, but weaknesses usually evolve into needs. And she is already a weakness.

"Try not to make a mess," she breathes as her eyes drift shut. "Andromeda wouldn't like it if you did."

"Me—antagonize Andromeda?" he whispers, gazing at her a moment too long. "Perish the thought."

A hum of acknowledgment resonates from her chest, her brows tossing him an unspoken _touché_ as he slides from her room. He stands motionless, staring at walls, rubbing his jaw, taking emotional inventory. He is in danger of drowning in a whirlpool of quicksand, one that titillates and teases as it devours him, one from which he has no will to escape.

"Idiot," he whispers yet again, staring hard at the blasted cat before reluctantly retrieving his laptop and forcing himself to get down to work.


	5. Chapter 5

It's useless.

He gazes at his laptop, a practically blank screen glaring back at him. Words won't come, and a deadline is looming, taunting him, mocking him, frustrating him to the point of distraction. Damn it all to hell.

His thoughts aren't cooperating at all. No, they are fixating instead upon a certain woman sleeping just one room away, a woman who means more than she should, a rather infuriating woman who has invaded parts of him she doesn't even want. A woman who could be lethal to his peace of mind. Could be? Who the hell is he trying to fool? She _is_ lethal to his peace of mind, there is no question anymore, and he is just digging his own hole even deeper with every text, every conversation, every look into those eyes of hers.

Every moment he spends in her company.

He sets the laptop on the table, moving to the window, rubbing the back of his neck as if that will push her out of his thoughts. Nothing will do that, he realizes as her small corner of London stares back at him, reminding him that he is staying over tonight, to help her, to make certain that stubborn female doesn't aggravate an already painful injury. An injury he brought about. He knows it, and it eats at him. _She_ eats at him. Everything about her draws him in, like a moth to a flame, like a fly into a carnivorous plant. Bottomless eyes so dark they appear charcoal, lips he finds too tempting, hair he wants to caress, a spirit that makes him feel more alive than he has in years. He should distance himself, not chomp on to her bait like a starving man begging her to reel him in.

What would his mother say about all of this, he wonders? She warned him against Freda, predicted that his ex-wife would use him for her own purposes and walk away. God, he'd been so blinded by beauty, so overwhelmed by false charm, and he had focused on what he wanted to see rather than what was staring him in the face, overlooking glaring warning signs his entire family had heeded. If he hadn't been such a stubborn half-witted ass, if he had chucked his pride aside and paid attention to the advice of those who loved him, perhaps he wouldn't be in such a sorry state. Perhaps he would have met someone better, someone genuine… Someone who would have stayed.

Then again, if he hadn't been trying to escape the pain of divorce, would he have strolled into that bar? Would he have seen that drunken moron trying to maul the woman in whose flat he now stood? Would he have ever met Mary Crawley?

"Mary, Mary, quite contrary," he breathes onto the pane, laughing at himself, at their situation, at them, at his life. He gazes around her flat, noting its neat, orderly décor that is unmistakably feminine, smiling at a picture of her holding a pina colada on a beach beside two women he assumes must be her mother and sister. Her unguarded grin makes her appear almost girlish, and sun-kissed cheeks dotted with freckles make him want to kiss her soundly and toss her into the ocean at the same time. What would it feel like to kiss her on the sand? His groin begins to ponder this much too seriously.

"Matthew." He turns towards her room, her former lover's name trampling over his thoughts with the grace of a rabid rhinoceros. But muffled groans gnaw into him, drawing him to her door, and he halts just by the doorknob, trying to hear her over his pulse. She's still sleeping he assumes, or possibly disoriented from the pain medication he gave her two hours ago.

"Come back."

He cried those same words when Freda left. They still hurt.

A wordless moan breaks his resistance, and he slowly opens her door, finding her asleep but restless, her dark hair strewn recklessly across her pillow, her Mickey Mouse shirt drawn up above her waist. He wants to hold her until thoughts of Matthew can't hurt her anymore, until Freda's memory burns away and loses its sting. Beads of sweat crisscross her forehead and upper lip, yet he pulls her blanket up to cover her just the same. He refuses to gape at her when she is powerless to stop him.

Another groan escapes her, cracking something inside himself he'd prefer not to examine. Damn. Is he destined to become attached to women who prefer someone else? Her arm twitches restlessly as her head moves from side to side, her expression clearly distressed.

"Shhhh, Mary," he whispers, gently taking her hand. "It's alright. I'm here." Her movement settles as she tugs him closer, her lips moving silently as a word finally forms.

"Hurts." The break in her voice squeezes his heart, and he sits on the edge of her bed, stroking her hair, feeling her pain.

"Yes. I know it does," he murmurs. "But it will pass. I promise." A small whimper hits him where it stings, and he sighs into the space, looking around her room for no particular reason. There are no pictures of Matthew, he notes, although she probably has one hidden away close by. A wedding photo resides in a drawer by his bedside, tucked away from sight but there, just the same. He really should get rid of it, but he can't. Not yet, anyway.

"Shhhh," he repeats, his presence calming her as her face leans into his touch. "You will heal, Mary. We both will." He melts as the lines of her face relax into his palm. She's so soft, so beautiful, so wounded and guarded, leery of letting anyone too close—just like him. Just like him.

Ice Queen, indeed.

His thumb traces her lips, a tumbling sensation tugging every piece of him into the depths of who she is. A small smile warms her features, and she clasps his wrist, keeping him bound to her as her breathing finally steadies. God—he is falling, and he knows it. This isn't good. It could be hell, actually. He gives into instinct and stretches out beside her, allowing her to meld into him and rest, even if she thinks he is someone else. Someone she still loves. Someone who left her, just as Freda left him.

"Mmmm," she hums, relaxing instantly into the deep trenches of sleep, and he closes his eyes, attempting to block out emotions he swore to himself he would fight off with everything he had. Too late, he thinks, cursing himself for what feels like the hundredth time this week.

"Mary, Mary," he whispers again to himself, knowing the struggle is useless, knowing he is an idiot, knowing he will probably have his heart shattered yet again by a woman whose lure he doesn't want to fight.

"Ogre," she murmurs just into his shoulder, making his breath catch as he wonders if his imagination has turned against him, too.

* * *

 

She's warm, too warm, and she struggles to open her eyes, to think, to comprehend. A fuzzy mist encircles her, trying to pull her back under, gently rocking her body with the lilt of lazy waves. Ah, this is better, she thinks, as she slides her hand leisurely across her pillow.

Wait—what's this? She grasps on to something solid, something firm, something lying against her, something that feels strangely like a man. _Matthew_. Her eyes flutter slowly, fighting an unnatural heaviness as she notices an ache in her leg. No, her knee, she realizes, and it's more than an ache. It's a dull throb that will not leave her alone and probably what woke her up in the first place.

Her knee. The park. She hurt her knee in the park while running. Yes, when someone pushed her out of a horse's path. God, it hurts. And it can't be Matthew next to her. Matthew is married now…to Lavinia…he is on his honeymoon...with Lavinia. No, it's definitely not Matthew—it doesn't even smell like Matthew. This scent is deeper, muskier, hinting of spice and leather, and she allows it to wash over her, filling her lungs, making her toes tingle. It is familiar and comforting, and she struggles to piece it together, touching an arm, stroking a chest, caressing a face. Rough stubble brushes her fingers, cajoling and tickling as it tugs her unrelentingly towards the surface.

Wait. She knows this jaw line, remembers who it was who tackled her in the park, recognizes this scent from his flat…from his bed…from him. Charles. Charles Blake.

Oh, God.

She turns her head and sees him beside her, in her bed, sleeping soundly with an arm draped over her chest. Over her chest. In her bed. Charles. Her pulse races ahead of her, her mind reeling to catch up. They hadn't…she couldn't have…could she? Did they? _Did they_? Panic seizes her, and she shoves him hard, pushing him off the edge and hearing him hit the floor with a thud.

"Ow!"

She pulls the blanket up to her chin, narrowing her eyes at him as he stands, rubbing his back.

"What was that for?" He looks truly baffled, making her want to punch him in the gut.

"What the hell were you doing in my bed?" she demands, feeling like a cornered rabbit gazing up at a disoriented fox.

"Sleeping," he returns, looking back at her like a wounded puppy. "What did it look like I was doing?"

"It looked like you were in my bed," she snaps back, too flustered to reason.

"Where I was sleeping," he retorts, his voice belligerent.

"If you needed a nap, I do have a sofa," she insists, clasping the blanket even tighter.

"You were crying out," he huffs back, taking a step towards the bed. "I came in here to calm you down."

"By hopping into bed with me?"

"By holding your hand," he spits, turning away, ravaging his hair. "Remind me to ignore you the next time you're in pain."

"I never invited you to stay in the first place," she argues, the situation spinning dreadfully out of control. "This was all your bloody idea!"

He freezes where he stands, turning to face her slowly with a look that hurts.

"Would you like me to leave?"

Eyes spar and clash, the current between them too charged for either to back down. It is then she comprehends that he is fully dressed except for his shoes, that he has been lying on top of the blankets rather than under them, and that all her clothes are intact. On top of the blankets. Sleeping. Fully clothed. Both of them.

"Mary?" He awaits her answer, and she knows he will do whatever she asks. God, she's an idiot…a willful, prideful idiot. "Do you want me to—"

"No," she interrupts, looking at her covers, the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but at him. "No. I don't want you to leave." The fight abandons her, and she wants to hide from him now, to curl up into a ball under the bedclothes and pretend that none of this ever happened.

"Are you sure?" She swallows with effort, tugging at a string sticking up from her sheet.

"Yes," she whispers. "I'm sure." She hears his feet shuffle, and she watches them pace back and forth restlessly. She still can't face him, not yet. Not yet.

"Good," he mutters, still pouting from the sound of his voice. "Because you'd be foolish to try weather this alone, and you know it."

"Just shut up," she fires back, rubbing her temples, wishing she could erase the past five minutes. "Please." She is foolish…and hot-headed, cold-hearted, stubborn and self-centered. The list extends even further, but she is too tired to examine it now. God knows she has been continually reminded of her short-comings by the men from her past. She doesn't need them reinforced by the one person who actually puts up with her. "I'm sorry," she manages, her ego more bruised than her knee. He looks at her in silence.

"It's alright," he finally offers with a shrug. "You've had a rough day." She wants to laugh at the accuracy of his statement, but bites it back instead. Why does he put up with her? Why the hell doesn't he just storm out of her flat and out of her life while he has the chance? It would be better for both of them if he did, she is certain, to get it over with before she becomes more attached. But she doesn't want him to go. It would hurt more than it should if he did, and she is tired of hurting.

"That still doesn't give me the right to take it out on you." She dares a look up at him and then cannot look away. He's caught her—at what, she's not certain, but it can't be good.

"Will you let me look at you knee?" She nods, and he sits warily on the edge of her bed, watching her closely in case she changes her mind and decides to attack him again. Her covering is gently pulled back, and he grimaces. "It's not good, Mary," he states flatly, looking back at her. "Will you please let me take you to see a doctor?" She nods reluctantly, watching him sigh in relief. "What shall I fetch you to wear?"

"I need to shower first," she insists, watching his brows draw together.

"You need to see a doctor."

"I smell, for God's sake." He stares back at her silently. "I got sick all over myself, if you remember," she continues. "I can't go anywhere smelling like vomit."

"It's a hospital, Mary," he reasons. "Not a 5 star restaurant. I'm sure they've seen and smelled much worse." Her fists ball up instinctively.

"Please don't make me, not like this." She clasps what little pride she has left, holding it with all she's got, feeling utterly naked in front of him. His sigh is one of resignation, and a knot in her chest releases, allowing her to breathe.

"And just how do you think this shower is going to work?" God, it hits her then, the reality of her dependence, the impossibility of such a simple task. What the hell is she supposed to do? She stares at him wordlessly, shame hitting her squarely in the gut as she finally breaks apart, humiliation pouring out of her in an unstoppable flood. He guides her face to his shoulder, granting her permission to cry, holding her gently as she tugs at his shirt. "Shhh," he soothes, stroking her hair like her mother used to do. "We'll figure it out."

She tries to catch her breath, to stop blubbering like an infernal idiot.

"It's not worth all this," he continues. "We'll get you clean somehow."

"What?" she mumbles, pushing back from him. "Are you planning on hosing me down?" Damn. That grin of his.

"Well, I hadn't thought of that, but I'm willing to give it a go if you are." A small huff of laughter puffs out her nostrils.

"Once an ogre, always an ogre," she mumbles, his smile lightening her spirit.

"There's my girl," he returns. "But in all seriousness, do you have a chair or a stool that is waterproof? One you can sit on it the shower?" She takes mental inventory, thinking through ever piece of furniture in her flat. "No," she sighs in defeat. "Unfortunately." His stare makes her nervous as he leans in close.

"Well," he begins. "I suppose I could get in there with you." Her eyes expand until they can't grow any larger.

"You can't shower with me," she insists, shaking her head.

"Do you have a better idea?" She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

"You can wear a bathing suit," he adds, somehow managing to sound reasonable. "I'll just stand behind you to hold you up. You can do the, ah, actual, um…washing." Is that a flush on his neck?

"And you'll just hold me?" she questions, not quite believing she is actually considering this. "That's all?"

"I'll just hold you," he repeats softly. "I won't let you fall again." Her breasts tighten, the thoughts of his hands on bare flesh making breathing difficult.

"They're in the bottom drawer," she says, shaking herself mentally, feeling her cheeks overheat. "My bathing suits."

"Right," he breathes, his cheeks puffing out a breath as he pushes himself from her bed. He makes his way to her dresser, kneeling down and opening the drawer. "Any particular one?" he asks, looking back at her. How she wishes she had thought to purchase a one piece.

"It doesn't matter," she sighs, blushing even brighter as he holds up a red bikini and tosses it in her direction.

"Yell when you're ready," he instructs, sliding out the door with a cough, leaving her sitting on her bead staring at her swimsuit. What the hell are they getting themselves into? It takes longer than it should for her to swing to the side of the bed, her t-shirt and bra coming off with little effort, her bikini top going on without a hitch. But getting out of her pants and panties, standing on her good leg and sitting back down, it's tiring and awkward. Then she stares at the red bottoms, biting back tears as she tries to maneuver her knee close enough so she can slide them on. "Augh!" she cries out, a blinding pain hitting her out of nowhere and making her close her eyes tightly.

"Mary!" he yells, pounding on her door. "Are you alright?" She groans a response through gritted teeth. "I'm coming in," he warns, hesitating a moment. "I won't look at anything I shouldn't."

She pulls the blanket around her thighs just as he eases back in, her entire body overheating as her bikini bottoms falling haphazardly to the floor. He quickly takes stock of the situation, gazing back at her in embarrassment.

"Do you need some help?" he mutters, clearing his throat. "Um, dressing, I mean?" She stares back at him slack jawed.

"Could you," she tries, rolling her eyes. "Could you hand me…that?" She motions to the garment, watching in mortification as he picks it up and dangles it from his finger.

"Can you get it on?" he mumbles, trying not to stare at her bare legs or her bikini-clad breasts now almost at eye-level. "Over your legs?" The words barely croak out of his parched mouth.

"If you could just slide it over my feet," she manages, pink cheeks making her even more attractive to him. "I think I can get it from there."

"Right," he exhales, trying to looking unaffected, knowing he is failing miserably. She is hurting, he reminds himself, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his hands steady. Red toes gleam up at him, and he gently slides the openings over her feet, trying his best not to caress her calves as he eases the garment up to her knees. Her shiver makes him hot all over, and he wonders what in God's name he was thinking when he volunteered to hop into the shower with her. How will he manage this without being completely obvious?

"That's fine," she mutters, her breathing heavier than normal. "I can take it from here." His ears are burning up.

"Do you need to hold on to me while you pull them up?" he asks, watching her eyes round exponentially. "I'll turn my back of course," he amends hastily. "And close my eyes." She knows how helpful it will be to have him here, but the thought of him…while she…without anything covering… God, what did it matter now? He had carried her when she passed out, had held her in her own bed, would be with her in the shower.

"Ok," she whispers, feeling a bit light-headed. "Just don't peek."

"Scout's honor," he states before closing his eyes. He extends a hand she can hold to stand, and the blanket falls from her lower body. But he remains immobile, eyes fastened securely shut, his expression steady. "You can turn around now," she instructs, watching him do so before bending over to pull the bottoms up securely. She knows he can't see her, but her cheeks feel half-baked just the same. "Alright," she sighs in relief, rendered nearly unsteady as he turns back around. "You can open your eyes. It's safe now."

It is anything but safe, and they both know it. They stand a breath away from each other, her hands on his shoulders, his arms securing her waist. Her lips are just there, his hair begs to be stroked, she looks nearly lost, his eyes make her ache in places that have nothing to do with her knee.

"Ahh," she mutters, her knee throbbing yet again as she clutches his upper arms, her nails digging in inadvertently.

"Hold on," he instructs, barely getting the words out of his mouth before swooping her up to his chest. She wraps her arms tightly around his neck, letting her head fall back to his shoulder, the warmth of him seeping into her chilled limbs.

"If you drop me, I'll have your head," she mutters into his neck, that scent of his getting to her yet again.

"Is that a threat or an invitation?" he grins, wincing as she smacks his shoulder. "Do that again and I'll reconsider that hose."

"Touch that hose and I'll jerk a knot in it," she retorts, feeling his chuckle vibrate all over. They stand in her bathroom, and he eases her down slowly, steadying her before he tugs off his shirt. He then begins to take down his pants, and she grabs his hand reflexively. "What are you doing?" she demands, feeling a surge of panic at the thought of him standing naked behind her.

"Stripping down to my skivvies," he answers matter-of-factly. "Don't worry, I'm wearing boxers. You won't see a thing…unless you want to, that is." Her eyes narrow in his direction. "I'd prefer not to shower fully clothed," he expounds, his trousers hitting the floor, leaving him bare-chested and too tempting for her own piece of mind. "Can you blame me?"

It isn't blame she is feeling at the moment, and she knows it. If her knee wasn't in such bad shape… If her knee wasn't in such bad shape, they wouldn't be standing partially-clad in her bathroom in the first place.

"I'm just relieved you didn't wear a thong," she throws back, feeling the wicked grin he tosses her right between her legs.

"I think there's one in my bag if you'd like me to change into it."

"There is such a thing as ogre-overload," she muses as he turns on the water, trying to reel in her pulse.

"Ogre-overload is a contact sport, you know," he goads, sliding under her arm and hoisting her off of her injury. "Quite stimulating, so I'm told. Shall we?"

"Wait," she commands, laying a hand on his chest. "Can you hand me a hair tie? Over there on the sink?"

Her touch lights him on fire, and they haven't even made it into the shower. He releases her slowly, turning around and handing her the first black band he sees, praying he's not embarrassing himself just yet. He most assuredly will at some point.

"Thank you," she returns, swooping her hair up into a makeshift knot, revealing more of her neck. "I'm ready."

"Are you sure?" he asks, giving her a look that makes her good knee feel unsteady.

"On the double, Lord Ogre," she retorts, doing her best to sound unaffected, her lips twitching and tightening. He maneuvers underneath her again, guiding them towards the streaming water, having her check the temperature before moving them inside. She winces, and he holds her tighter.

"Put your weight on me, Mary," he instructs. "Not your bad knee. That's why I'm here."

The water slides over her skin, making her shiver, washing her clean. She revels in the sensation, trying to focus on the stimulation of soap gliding across wet body rather than the feel of his hands on her waist, the chill of his breath near her ear. It isn't easy. It's impossible, actually, and if it weren't for her knee…

If it weren't for her knee…

Her neck is just there, just in front of him, hovering close, begging for his mouth. He physically restrains himself from kissing her, from nibbling the junction of neck and shoulder, from drinking in freshly rinsed flesh, from sampling that smattering of freckles so close he can almost taste them. _Keep it steady_ , he reminds himself. She's leaning back against him, which allows her to feel too much, way too much, and there's no relief in sight.

Her breasts pucker as his arousal grows against her, and she's not certain if she's more relieved or frustrated by the fact their attraction is mutual. Of course, men can get aroused so easily, and it probably means nothing, or at least nothing more than a natural response to their circumstances. They are, after all, practically naked in the shower together. It's no more than that—it can't be. It can't be. Her knee is the size of a grapefruit, she reminds herself. It's not as if she can act on these foolish impulses even if she wanted to, and that's probably a good thing. Charles Blake is dangerous, too tempting for a one-night stand, too decent for a long-term relationship. He would leave her. Men always leave her, especially the good ones.

She's hurt, she's injured, and this is neither the time nor the place to dwell on how much he would like to slip that blasted bikini off of her shoulders and kiss her everywhere at once. Mary Crawley is worth more than that, he tells himself, too much a lady for simple sexual relief, too important to pull her into his mess of a life. Too likely to leave him when she finds someone better. And women like her always find someone better.

She turns off the water, and they move out together, he carrying her weight, she allowing him to do so. He grabs the closest towel, drying her arms, then her chest, making her shiver, making her want.

His hands nearly falter as he makes his way to her naval, and he doesn't dwell on her thighs, knowing they will be his undoing as he tenderly moves over her bad knee. She is too much, too perfect, too irritating, too stubborn, too glorious…too everything.

He then slings another towel around his waist, swallowing audibly as his boxers hit the floor. Her throat constricts as images she doesn't need fill her brain, and she wants to touch him, to feel him against her again, to be wrapped up in this man she shouldn't need.

"I don't want to drip on the hardwood," he explains as he moves back to her side.

"How very thoughtful of you," she quips, clearing a tickle in her throat. "But exactly whose hardwood are you protecting? Yours or mine?" He turns one shade shy of scarlet.

"I'm a thoughtful guy," he manages, mesmerized by her hooded expression as he deftly changes the subject. "Shall we take this to your bedroom?"

"What?" Her eyes widen along with her ache.

"So you can get dressed," he clarifies, looking complete flustered. "I think I know where you keep all of your clothes now."

"That sounds rather incriminating," she breathes, every nerve humming his tune as he moves to help her again.

"If the bikini fits," he tosses back, catching her smirk just before he moves under her arm. He leads her forward, feeling her in places she doesn't touch, hot desire warring with responsibility, her scent making him dizzy. He leans her just against her bed, making certain she is stable, wanting to kiss her hard before pulling himself away. "Here are the crutches," he states, leaning them against the foot of her bed as he sets comfortable clothes on top of the blankets. "Yell if you need me. I'll come in an instant."

"I'll bet you will," she whispers daringly, appreciating his chest too much, wanting to touch him again. Wanting him to touch her.

"God, Mary, I'm sorry," he returns as color splotches his neck. "I didn't mean, I didn't want to..." He cuts himself off, staring at his feet.

"You didn't," she states, touching his cheek. "It's alright. It's just…."

She doesn't know how to finish her sentence, and he doesn't seem to care. He's watching her, studying her, and she feels his gaze on her skin, the heat of his need pulsing hot and fast between them, the scent of her own wrapping them up. Her nipples stand at attention as he stares hard at her mouth and everything stops. There is nothing but him, but her, but this. He is just there...just in front of her. She is so close, close enough to kiss, close enough to caress. His mouth opens slightly at the mere thought of tasting her. Her lips swell, an answer to his unspoken question. If he moves in closer, if she leans in like so…

_Bang, bang, bang!_

They jump at the sound, startled and embarrassed, the moment clattering to the floor.

"Are you expecting anyone?" he asks, shaking himself soundly.

"No," she answers, covering her chest instinctively. "Can you answer it?"

"In a towel?" he questions, gazing down at himself. Her face flushes again.

"It's probably just a package," she reasons, unable to look away from him just yet. "The delivery man won't care how you're dressed."

"Or not dressed, rather," he clarifies, wondering why in God's name he let her talk him into this nonsense. He crosses her front room quickly, moving to the door, exhaling before he cracks it open.

Not a package. Not the delivery man. Bloody hell.

Rounded eyes gawk at him, a gaping jaw fixed in his direction. They stare at each other mutually, and he tries to muster up a shred of dignity.

"May I help you?" he questions, tightening his grip on the towel. Blue eyes widen even further—a feat Charles had believed to be physically impossible.

"I'm not sure," the stranger answers incredulously, pushing past him into the flat before rounding on him. "That might depend on just who the hell you are." 


	6. Chapter 6

Has he ever been this uncomfortable in the entirety of his life?

He had been mortified the time his trousers ripped in front of Lucy Ryan, had wanted to die when he lost his swimming trunks in a lake full of girls when he was thirteen, but this…this… Damn.

"I'm Charles Blake," he manages, speaking as normally as one can when standing in front of a stranger wearing only a towel. He extends the hand not holding on to what covers him, jarred yet again when the unknown person begins to laugh.

"Mary!" Her yell is followed by an unexpected hug that nearly knocks him over, then she kisses his cheek with a smile as big as he had ever seen.

"Sybil?" Mary's voice cries back from her bedroom. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm Mary's sister," the woman confides with a wink, looking him over yet again, making him feel like a prize steed on auction. "I have a long layover before my flight back to Dublin," she yells back to her sibling. "I thought I'd stop by for a visit."

"You couldn't have texted?" her sister calls back, making Sybil's grin stretch all the wider. "Given me some sort of warning?"

"And miss this marvelous welcome?" Sybil muses as his neck starts to burn. "I'm so glad I didn't."

Silence greets her assertion, and Charles knows that Mary has pieced together exactly what her sister has surmised by his lack of attire and her location in the bedroom.

"Um, Sybil," he begins, rubbing the back of his neck. "This isn't exactly—"

"Oh, God," she laughs, waving him off as she makes her way to the kitchen. "You don't owe me an explanation." Sybil helps herself to a glass of water, eyeing him with a curiosity that reminds Charles of a cat toying with its prey.

"I know," he continues. "But we were just, I mean I was just taking a shower, and…" Her grin expands with every word he utters, and he knows that the hole in which he is standing has just grown exponentially.

"Thank God," she exclaims, setting her empty glass down with a clink. "Do you know how thrilled I am to see you here? Lord, I thought she never would get over Matthew."

His stomach drops to his knees, and he shakes his head in a stupor as Sybil makes her way to Mary's bedroom door.

"But you see, Sybil," he tries, hoisting his towel up a bit higher, thankful that at least his erection has subsided in wake of this untimely shock. "Mary and I are—"

"Don't worry," she assures him. "I won't interrupt your plans for the night. Just let me hug my sister, and I'll be on my merry way. And you can be on yours."

He swallows, not exactly sure what one should do when standing barely dressed in front of the sister of the woman who rules his thoughts and fantasies. Although, at the moment, throttling is the first action that comes to mind when he pictures Mary's slender neck.

"May I come in?' Sybil asks after knocking on Mary's door, blatantly eyeing Charles without blinking.

"I'm not dressed," Mary answers, instigating a flicker of Sybil's eyebrows aimed directly at him. Thank God his mother cannot see him now.

"Obviously," Sybil returns. "But there's no need to be so modest around me."

"I think I'll just get dressed," he mutters as he moves towards the bathroom, wanting to crawl under the flooring and never come back.

"Don't bother on my account," Sybil teases, making his face singe as he begins to concoct a variety of torments he will inflict upon Mary for making him answer the door practically naked. "That towel suits you."

"I'm glad to hear it," he tosses over his shoulder, telling himself that he should extricate himself from a certain woman and her mess of a family as soon as possible. "I do try to select my towels with care."

"Choose a smaller one next time," Sybil quips, making him wonder what kind of mother raised the Crawley sisters. "I'm certain Mary will approve."

Her sister. Mary's sister meets him in nothing more than a glorified loin cloth. God, this doesn't bode well for any kind of future they might have. Of course, they don't have any future to speak of in the first place. Perhaps he should have stayed in bed today.

Mary gasps, grabbing her towel for covering as Sybil enters uninvited.

"I told you to wait," Mary insists with a sigh.

"God, Mary," Sybil tosses back with a roll of her eyes. "We are sisters, and you don't have anything that I haven't got."

"Then why are you so keen to look at mine?" she queries, shaking her head at her sister's snicker.

"I'm not," Sybil answers. "But I wouldn't have minded if your new boyfriend had dropped his towel." Truth be told, Mary wouldn't have minded had he dropped it before they were interrupted by the very woman now standing in her bedroom.

"Listen, Sybil," Mary begins, drawing a deep breath. "Charles isn't my boyfriend. We've only known each other a short time, and…"

"Way to go, sis," Sybil exclaims. "God, I'm so proud of you, seizing the moment and all that. He's gorgeous, and I'll bet he's amazing in bed."

"We weren't in bed," Mary attempted. "He—"

"Even better. Shower sex is the best. Where all have you been doing it?" Sybil questions eagerly. "Have you been on the patio yet? Lord, wait until I tell Tom!"

"He's helping me with my knee," Mary states in exasperation. "And I would never have sex on the patio. God, Sybil, I hope you haven't been doing that in Dublin."

"Of course not," Sybil grins. "Tom and I are actually horribly tame and predictable, but that doesn't mean I haven't thought about it. And what's wrong with your knee?"

"I've injured it somehow," Mary explains, watching her sister's eyes widen at its swollen, purplish state.

"What happened?" Sybil asks, staring back slack-jawed.

"Charles tackled me," Mary sighs, stifling her sister's mounting excitement. "Knocking me out of a horse's path at the park, not by engaging in rough sex, for God's sake. Stop looking at me like that."

"Well, at least he's a hero," Sybil smiles. "Definitely hold on to this one, Mary. Lord, I'll even buy you a leash for him so he can't get away." She gives her younger sister a hard look.

"Why don't you start by handing me those clothes and helping me get them on?" she quips, wincing as her knee throbs yet again. "And I'd never want a man I'd have to leash to keep around, anyway."

"So put it to other uses," Sybil teases, rubbing her shoulder just after her sister smacks it.

"Reel yourself in," Mary instructs, adjusting her towel. "Besides, my sex life is none of your business."

"If you're that secretive about it, you might want to refrain from allowing your boyfriend to answer your front door wearing nothing but a towel."

"I've already told you," Mary breaks in. "He's not my boyfriend."

"Lover, friend with benefits, man-slave," Sybil muses. "Whatever you want to call him."

"I call him Charles," Mary states, attempting to sound unfrazzled, even though her seams are coming undone one by one.

"Well, that's a start, at least," Sybil quips with a shrug. "So how did you meet Charles?"

"At a bar," Mary answers, remaining as nonchalant as possible.

"And…" Sybil presses, leaning in closer.

"And what? We met at a bar. End of story." Her younger sister's grin makes her exceedingly nervous.

"There has to be more to it than that," Sybil insists. "I'll have to ask Charles about it once he's dressed."

"He'll tell you the same thing," Mary states, quelling down nerves that disagree with her assertion.

"Then you won't mind me asking," Sybil reasons, setting Mary's teeth on edge.

"Why do you care how we met?" The question flies out of her mouth before she can think it through.

"Because I like him," Sybil replies. "And he's good for you."

"How can you tell when you've only just met him?" Mary questions, her back beginning to chill.

"Because he's bringing you back to life," Sybil responds, touching her sister's arm. "Look at you. You've got color in your cheeks, you're feisty again. I've been really worried about you, Mary, and so has Mama. You've not been yourself for a long time, and it's hurt us both to see you like that."

"I've not been that pathetic," Mary protests, knowing she sounds thoroughly unconvincing.

"No," Sybil returns. "You've been worse."

She shakes off unwanted sentiments, not allowing them to seep into her pores and convince her of their veracity.

"You're reading too much into this, as usual," Mary retorts with an eye roll.

"I don't think so," Sybil argues. "I've been here more than fifteen minutes, and you haven't mentioned Matthew once." Mary's breath hitches in her throat.

"That's over, and it has been for some time," she states with as much dignity as she can muster.

"But you've finally accepted it and moved on," Sybil adds with an affirming squeeze of her arm. "That's something, Mary. Something to celebrate."

"Don't celebrate prematurely," Mary instructs, taking a shaky breath. "Charles will figure me out sooner or later, and that will be the end of it, whatever the hell this actually is."

"God, would you stop with that," Sybil protests. "Getting to know Mary Crawley is not a bad thing, it's a good one. The problem is you keep pushing people away who want to take the time and effort to get close to you. People get tired after being shoved back too often and too hard."

"And when did you receive your counselling certification?" Mary quips, narrowing her eyes in defense.

"My point is proven," Sybil fires back, flicking her brows in time with her sister's. "I mean it, Mary. There's more to you worth sharing with a man besides your wit and your body. It's glorious when you can be completely yourself with someone and not worry that they'll leave you. That's love, you know, and it's worth everything."

"Just because you've found that with Tom doesn't mean that the rest of us are that lucky," Mary states. "Most people don't get what the two of you have."

"Then that's their own fault," Sybil insists. "You have to work for it, Mary. A good relationship doesn't just fall out of the sky. You have to be honest and vulnerable with each other in order to make it work."

Mary swallows audibly.

"I did that once," she whispers. "And it nearly killed me."'

A pained hush is broken by a thud and muted curse from the bathroom, making both women giggle as Mary shakes her head.

"I mean it, Mary," Sybil asserts. "Don't allow your break-up with Matthew to keep you from finding something even better with someone else." Her sister's gaze targets the door to the bathroom, making Mary's cheeks flush instantly.

"I don't know that I'm capable of anything better." The admission stings, and she drops her head, feeling incredibly vulnerable and exposed.

"I know you are," Sybil states with confidence, squeezing her hand. "Now, let's get you dressed. Or would you rather Charles come assist you?"

She remembers the feel of his hands on bare skin, the heat of his arousal pressing up against her, the nearness of his mouth before they pulled back from the ledge.

"Do shut up, Sybil" Mary commands. "And hand me my bra."

 

* * *

 

 "Is it safe to come in?"

His question follows his knock, and Sybil shakes her head as she opens the door for him.

"As if you haven't seen it all already," she quips, missing the manner in which her sister drops her eyes.

"With Mary, every time feels like the first time," Charles shoots back, making Mary's head shoot up as her eyes widen in his direction.

"How sweet," Sybil muses, tossing Mary sappy grin.

"Yes, he is," Mary hums. "Can you believe he is cooking for me until my knee completely recovers? His idea, not mine." His brows shoot up as hers flicker a silent _touché._

"How lovely! So what's your specialty?" Sybil queries.

"Boiled tongue," he tosses back. "Perfecting such a prickly dish requires just the right touch."

"Tongue," Sybil flinches. "I didn't know you liked tongue, Mary."

"She loves it," he answers, watching Mary's neck turn three shades of pink. "Can't get enough of it, actually."

He dares.

"Only if it's done right," Mary responds. "Otherwise it leaves a bad taste in my mouth."

"Believe me," Charles returns smoothly. "I always do it right."

Their eyes refuse to budge, and Sybil looks back and forth between them.

"How like you to tout your tongue skills," Mary challenges.

"I never make a claim I cannot admirably fill," he retorts. "The proof is in the pudding, so to speak."

"And what if I refuse to let you near my pudding?" They are grinning now, leaving Sybil speechless.

"Well, that's your prerogative, of course," he shrugs. "But sharing the pudding has its own set of rewards." Her breasts tingle in his direction.

"I think I'm in the mood for boiled sausages tonight," Mary states, enjoying the way he bites his bottom lip. "And please cook the hell out of them." He rubs fingers over his scalp, trying not to let his nether regions steer his ship yet again.

"Up for some bangers and mash, are we?" Charles asks. "Your wish is my command."

"That's a good ogre," she purrs, warming all over as he shakes his head and smirks.

"Shouldn't we be getting Mary to the hospital?" Sybil's question pulls them out of their sparring match, and he moves forward purposely, planting a lingering kiss on Mary's cheek, careful to breathe into her ear.

"Come along, dearest," he croons, sliding his arm under her and around her waist in one deft motion. "Remember to put your weight on me."

Damn. He's too close now, making her feel things too strongly for her own good.

"You heard him, Sybil," Mary voices. "He just gave me permission to take full advantage of him tonight."

"Don't you always?" he quips as he guides her to the front door, Sybil clutching the crutches and trying to keep up.

"You're only brushing the tip of the iceberg," she breathes into his neck, making him clear his throat rather loudly.

"Somehow I think that should be my line," he murmurs, Sybil now all but forgotten as they exit the flat.

"And just when I was craving toad in the hole," she murmurs, watching his face flush hot pink as he steadies his breathing. "What a shame."

"Your cravings could be my undoing," he confesses, shaking his head soundly. "In more ways than one. Hold on tight, my lady."

She is hoisted into his arms just as she had been in route to the shower, the memories of him warm and wet now hitting her squarely between the thighs.

"Gahhh," she cries out as he takes his first step downward, the jolting motion slicing up her leg.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, all jesting now gone from his tone. "I'll try to do better." His expression of guilt makes her ache.

"Just don't drop me, and I'll be alright."

He stops and looks straight at her, eye to eye, nose to nose. Something thick begins to bubble beneath her ribs, wanting to break free of the self-imposed confines binding her rigidly together.

"I told you earlier," he assures her with the heated delicacy of a lover. "I won't drop you again. Trust me, Mary."

Her tongue feels too thick to answer, her brain too befuddled to throw a barb. She simply nods and swallows as he holds her closer to his chest, seeming to understand what this wordless assent has cost her.

"I do trust you," she whispers, the words uncoiling something tight as they spill from her lips. And as he gives her a lopsided smile she can't quite decipher, she realizes with a start that she truly does.

 

* * *

 

 "How is this?" he asks, watching her expression intently. "Alright?"

"As good as it can be," she answers, following him with her eyes as he fluffs the pillow delicately yet again. "This brace is restrictive."

"It's supposed to be restrictive," he tosses back. "That's how that sprain is going to heal. Now be a good girl and sit tight while I get you an ice pack."

"Yes, sir," she quips with an eye roll. "Sybil really likes you, you know." He shakes his head as an odd chuckle escapes him.

"God, I'm glad," he muses. "I can honestly say I've never had such a personal and embarrassing introduction." Her laughter hits him squarely, the grin she shoots him much too adorable.

"I'll bet," she teases, and he notes the effects of pain killers clouding her eyes. "Lord, who knows what she'll tell Tom about us."

"I shudder to think."

"Don't tell me you're squeamish," she teases, eyeing him dangerously.

"If I were, I wouldn't be here with you, now would I?" he grins, eliciting a deep laugh.

"How clever of you, Lord Ogre," she breathes as he adjusts her pillow yet again.

"Here," he states, laying the ice pack on her swollen knee. "Now let me fix you something to eat before you pass out here on the sofa."

"More eggs and toast?" she questions, snaking her arm around his neck. "Like you did in your flat?" Thoughts of her in his bed overcrowd his imagination.

"If that's what you like," he offers. "Eggs will probably settle well on your stomach." She stops talking and stares at him, her eyes a bit dazed, her presence overwhelming his reason. God he wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss the hell out of her.

"Why did you offer to stay over, Charles?" Her breath tickles his lips as a finger strokes his cheek.

"Because you need me," he answers, tingling in places that respond to her much too rapidly. "And I'm available."

"Available for what?" she croons, clearly descending into a mental fog. "Any and all of my needs?" He fights down the tightening in his grown, ignoring the drug-induced seduction on her lips as he gently removes her arm.

"Of course," he smiles. "And right now, you need to eat and then rest."

"Coward," she throws back, leaning into the pillows. "Are you afraid of kissing me?" He turns back to face her directly.

"Yes," he answers honestly, wondering if she'll remember this conversation tomorrow. "I am, actually."

"Why, in God's name?" she questions, her pouty expression reminding him too much of one of his sisters. He moves back to sit beside her, staring into eyes that always get to him.

"Because once I start, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop." A low hum resonates from her ribs as her fingers lace themselves in his hair.

"And that would be a bad thing because?"

"Because you're not in your right mind at the moment," he answers frankly. "And when and if I ever kiss you, I want you to remember every damn second of it."

They hover nose to nose for an extended breath.

"Cocky, aren't we?" she muses, the words nearly slurring as her hand moves deftly between his legs.

"Horribly," he agrees, standing quickly and moving out of her range of motion. "And right now, this cocky ogre is going to make you something to eat. End of discussion."

"Spoiled sport," she calls after him, biting her lower lip.

"God knows I've been called worse," he fires back, enjoying her throaty laugh more than he should. "Especially by you."

"Why don't you cook in the towel?" He freezes where he stands, turning away from the refrigerator and eyeing her incredulously.

"I prefer not to risk getting burned," he responds.

"Protecting your bacon, I take it," she grins, and he laughs in spite of himself.

"Someone has to," he shrugs, putting said meat in the skillet before proceeding to crack the eggs. "Every pig for himself, you know."

"Do I look like the big bad wolf?" she teases, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Like I'm going to huff and puff and blow your pants down?"

"You look like a delirious wolf," he returns as he whisks his concoction. "And I've never heard that version of the story. Just what kind of fairy tales did your mummy read to you as a child?"

"Let's play charades and I'll show you," she grins, and he bites back his arousal as best he can.

"When your knee has recovered, I may just take you up on that," he offers. "But only if I get it in writing that no pots of boiling water will be employed as props."

"My knee is in fine form for charades," she insists with a yawn.

"I'm sure it is," he smirks. "Would some coffee help or hurt, do you think?"

"I'd prefer a glass of wine," she states, languidly stretching her arms. "Why don't you open a bottle?"

"No wine," he insists. "Sorry. Not allowed with the drugs you're now taking."

"How about a beer?" she tries. "I'll share the foam."

"Stop tempting me," he insists, putting on some water to boil. "I think tea might be the best thing for you, honestly."

"You sound like my mother," she bites back with a frown.

"The mother who read you naught fairy tales?" he returns, making her cackle outright. "Heaven forbid."

"What's your mother like?"

He pauses just before pouring eggs into the pan.

"She's a lot like you, actually. Bossy and very sure of herself." The admission makes her smile.

"Hmmm, I like her already."

"She'd like you, as well," he states, feeling an odd sensation at the thought of them meeting. "Especially your taste in chefs."

"But I've never tasted the chef," she observes, flashing him the naughtiest grin he has ever seen as the bacon sizzles noisily under his nose.

"Patience," he quips, pulling his gaze back to the meat, trying not to let it burn. "The chef is not on tonight's menu."

"Pity," she pouts as a yawn hits her again. He finishes preparing the meal in silence, watching as her head begins to droop and her eyes begin to flutter.

"Eat," he instructs, moving towards her with a tray and handing her a fork. "Every last bite of it."

"Too tired," she protests, shoving his hand away.

"Too bad," he overrules, stabbing some eggs and holding them up to her lips. "You'll start vomiting again if you don't get some food in your stomach, and I don't want you waking me up at some ungodly hour." She opens her mouth to protest, only to have it silenced by a fork full of eggs.

"Bully," she huffs as he hands her a strip of bacon. She bites of a piece and stares at him hard while she chews.

"Whatever it takes," he states, offering her a sip of tea. "I do value my beauty sleep."

"It's not doing you any good," she returns, biting off some more bacon.

"Now is that any way to speak to your personal chef?" he questions, practically shoving another bite of eggs into her as she frowns back at him. She eats the rest in silence, finally halting his hand as he offers her the last bite.

"No more," she insists, imbibing in a final sip of tea. Her eyes are at half-mast, and she clutches his shirt to keep herself steady. "Please." Her raw vulnerability twists his heart painfully.

"Alright," he agrees, indulging himself with a gentle stroke of her hair, enchanted by its texture, lured by the promise of its scent. "Let's get you to bed now. You're past ready."

He sweeps her up to his chest, carrying her to the now familiar walls of her bedroom, depositing her softly on to her bed.

"Hold on, now," he protests as he watches pull her top off unceremoniously. "Let me get you something to put on." She shrugs, her eyes hazed over.

"You've already seen me in a bikini," she argues drowsily. "What's the difference?"

He rummages through her draw, finding an over-sized t-shirt that will easily reach her thighs. It probably belonged to Matthew, but he's not in a position to care at the moment.

"Here," he breaks in, sliding it over her head just before she manages to unfasten her bra. He breathes out in relief, knowing what the sight of her breasts would do to him. She pushes her arms through the sleeves after tossing the undergarment to the floor, gesturing to her pants as she looks up at him in placid expectation. This woman is going to kill him. Pure and simple.

He slides her pants down with a sigh, using every measure of self-discipline he owns not to caress her thighs or stare where he shouldn't.

"Better?" he asks as liquid eyes stare back at him heavily.

"Hmmm," she hums with a nod, looping her arms about his neck as he moves her head on to her pillow and adjusts the one under her knee. "Stay with me, Charles. Please."

Damn it.

"Not a good idea, Mary," he whispers gently, finding her grip to be surprisingly strong. "You'll be madder than hell at both of us in the morning if you find me in your bed. I've got a nice bruise on my hip to offer up as evidence."

"What's wrong with me? Don't you want me?" His throat swells uncomfortably.

"There's not a damn thing wrong with you," he assures her, stroking her cheek. "And I want you so badly it hurts." He feels the confession all over.

"Then what's stopping you? I'm right here." He attempts to swallow, finding it nearly impossible.

"It's wrong, Mary," he asserts, losing his fingers in her hair. "I won't make love to you when you're like this. And I refuse to be a substitute for someone else."

"You're an idiot, Charles Blake," she grins, pulling his mouth down to hers and nibbling his upper lip with her teeth. Molten heat shoots down all his nerve endings at once, and his mouth responds on its own, opening, tasting, caressing hers in a dangerous tango she intensifies on cue. Her tongue seeks his, stroking him rhythmically until he breaks out in a sweat.

"I'm a complete idiot, Mary Crawley," he manages, trying to catch both his breath and his reason as he pushes back from her reluctantly. "But you need to sleep, not to wake up to actions you'll regret."

Her eyes register something, an expression he can't quite read that knocks him squarely in the gut.

"Just don't leave me. Alright?" He feathers a kiss to her forehead, stroking her hair away from her face.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promises. "After all, I am your ogre. Remember?"

A languid smile beams up at him, and she sleepily nods her head. He remains on the edge of her bed, stroking her hair until her eyes finally fall shut and her breathing falls into a steady rhythm.

"Stop making me fall in love with you," he whispers, feeling her shift into his hand as a sound of contentment rolls out of her chest. Then he shakes his head and stands, gazing back at her before leaving her bedroom, knowing he has lost any semblance of control when it comes to her and wondering just how badly he will come to regret it. 


	7. Chapter 7

His mouth covers hers, gentle yet demanding, pulling and coaxing, delicious and warm. A large hand works its way under her shirt, finding her breast, squeezing and prodding until she is grinding against him in need. Then his tongue is on her neck, her shoulder, her nipple, every sense responding to the whims of his mouth, every atom in her body crying out for him to be inside of her and to ease this ache sending her out of her mind.

"Charles," she moans, reveling in the texture of coarse hair woven into her fingers, of his leg nudging open her thighs, of the heat of him pressing against her core, his breath on her neck, his scent on her skin. Then she bucks against him, begging for completion, enveloping all of him, crying out in pain…

"Charles," she cries, sitting up in bed, wincing at the sharp jab in her knee, confused to find the other side of her bed unoccupied and cold. She shivers and clasps the blankets up to her chin, continuing to stare at the walls of her room in confusion, missing the presence of a man she fears needing so much. Her knee is throbbing, and she bites her lower lip in frustration. She hears nothing, the absolute silence enshrouding her like an icy tomb, and she breathes in deeply to chase away the fog of unrealized dreams. Yet they linger, tickling nerves, pressing on emotions she's too tired to handle. She wants him with her, craving their banter, longing for his reassurance, missing that blasted grin and quirk of his brow that burrows under carefully crafted layers all too easily. But the taste of him, the texture of his lips, the lushness of his hair, it had been so vivid, too real to be the product of drug-induced sleep.

God—had they actually kissed?

She wracks her scalp in confusion, seeking a clarity just out of her grasp as she seals her eyes shut in concentration. Memories whisper enticingly, swirling in her brain as a mocking mist, revealing fragments and echoes one bit at a time. His eyes…the way he had stared at her…the curve of his mouth…the tone of his voice when he had said… Wait? What had he said to her? Yes, they had kissed, she is almost certain of it but confused as to the details. Who instigated it? Why had it ended? Was he still sleeping on her sofa just beyond her bedroom door? Or had she pushed him away for reasons she can remember no better than anything else stored in her muddled mind? She has a sinking sensation that it was all her doing.

God—what he must think of her.

There's only one way to find out, she reasons, and she bites her lower lip in determination, setting her sights on crutches leaned conveniently by her bedside. She reaches for them after maneuvering her legs over the edge, settling them into her armpits when something hits her with the shock of cold water. It hadn't been Matthew making love to her in that dream.

Her throat constricts as she ponders implications that make her hands tremble and her heart pound. She has vowed to never let another man in so close, to see her so vulnerable, to witness her weaknesses without filters or edits. But here she now sits, knowing Charles Blake has seen her at her worst and most vulnerable. He has cleaned up her vomit, helped her bathe, assisted her both removing and putting on clothing without making demands or taking advantage. He has seen her stinking drunk and horribly hungover, has heard her cry over what was lost and knows the desperate lengths she took to get it back. God—he's practically seen her naked in every way imaginable.

The question now is if he is still around.

She pushes herself up onto the crutches, wincing at the pressure under her arms, catching herself just before the bottoms slide out from under her. Damn it. She hates these bloody crutches. She manages one leap and then another, feeling no sturdier than a fawn testing newborn limbs, and she presses her lips together, concentrating on each step, focusing on every movement, breathing out between each one before sucking in more air to try again. It's hard not to grunt as she opens her door, but she quickly pokes her head out, exhaling in relief at the sight that greets her. Charles is stretched out on her couch, one arm hanging over the side, the other tossed across his stomach. And nestled snuggly on top of his chest sits Andromeda, curled up and content, her tail precariously close to his slumbering face.

"What are you looking at?" she whispers as the cat watches her every move. But the feline is unfazed by her difficulties, flitting her tail just so, making Charles flick his hand across his nose with a snort. She nearly laughs as she makes it a step closer, then she is practically on top of him, watching him with a fascination she cannot define. Dark lashes fan out across tan cheeks, morning scruff peeking out before the sun, protectively covering the expanse where dimples now sleep. She wants to touch him, to caress him, to press her lips to his to prove to herself that their kiss is actually a hazy memory and not the product of an overly-vivid dream. But you can't imagine taste, can you, or the distinctive shape of a mouth, or the texture of an unknown tongue…

"May I help you?"

She jumps at his words, and feels suspended just a moment as she loses her footing, her crutches sliding here and there as his arms work faster than her mind. A gasp escapes her as he grips her waist hard, helping her put pressure on her good leg as she collapses onto the coffee table in front of him.

"Don't ever do that again," he reprimands, catching his breath as he sits up quickly. "God, Mary, you just scared the life out of me. Do you realize how badly you could have hurt yourself?" She feels like a five year old caught raiding the biscuit tin.

"I'm already on crutches," she tosses back. "No thanks to you."

"Don't remind me," he responds, the remorse on his face making her wish she could bite back her words. "I feel horrible every time I look at your knee."

"I'm sorry," she breathes. "I didn't mean that. Truly." He reaches for her hand then, cupping it between his own in a manner she feels all over.

"I know," he whispers. "But it is my fault you're on those things, and we both know it." His eyes fall to the floor, taking a small piece of her with them on their decent.

"I might be in a body cast or worse if you hadn't knocked me out of the way," she assures him, ignoring the pain in her knee as best she can. "You don't owe me an apology."

He stares as if seeing parts of her for the first time, and she shifts uncomfortably under his scrutiny, wishing he would say something to alleviate her uncertainty.

"You'd look cute in a body cast," he grins half-heartedly, and she sees the sides of his mouth tremble. "Of course, you'd have to let me sign it wherever I wanted." Her cheeks flush in an instant.

"What makes you think I'd let you near me with a pen?" she fires back.

"Because I have expert penmanship," he smiles back. "And face it. You're dying to check out my John Hancock." Her breathing feels much too shallow.

"And just when I thought you'd graduated from ogre to frog," she retorts, eliciting a groggy chuckle.

"I suppose there is no hope for me," he sighs, stroking her thumb still encased in his hands. "Once your ogre, always your ogre."

Then it hits her with the impact of a bullet, a memory, a fragment…him leaning over her just so, stroking her hair, staring into her soul… _Just don't leave me. Alright?_

_I'm not going anywhere. After all, I am your ogre…_

"I kissed you, didn't I?"

His eyes round in surprise, and she sees him swallow before he drops his gaze to their entwined hands.

"Yes. You did." Her heart flutters in both fear and relief, and she breathes in with difficultly, wishing she had planned what to say next.

"Charles," she tries, "I-I'm…"

"Don't worry about it," he jumps in, still not looking at her. "I know it didn't mean anything, that you were high on pain medication and not thinking clearly." Her heart sinks with the weight of lead.

"Yes," she stammers, her eyes fluttering ahead of her. "I mean, I'm sorry I took you off guard like that. I usually don't…"

"Mary." She fights back tears, refusing to cry in front of him now, not when she knows the kiss meant nothing to him, not when he clearly is just being kind to her, not when he doesn't feel what she feels, when he doesn't wonder just what would happen if... "Please," he assures her, pulling her hand into his chest, stabbing her inner fabric with his gesture. "Don't apologize. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Except kiss an ogre," she retorts, her bottom lip quivering rebelliously.

"Well, there is that," he breathes. "I hope you've had all your shots."

She laughs, she can't help it, and she looks back at him, moisture clouding her vision, making him stare back at her in concern.

"Damn it, Mary," he whispers. "Don't do that." He then moves to the table beside her, enveloping her in his arms, making her tears fall all the harder, making her want him with a force she thought she'd never experience again. Why does she always want what is just out of her reach?

"I'm sorry," she says roughly. "I don't know what's gotten into me."

He kisses her temple, making her ache in too many places, and she shuts her eyes in an attempt to ward off disappointment as her eyes continue to well over.

"You're exhausted and hurting," he answers. "Not to mention frustrated and stuck with an incompetent ogre for a caregiver."

"You're hardly incompetent," she murmurs, her face pressing into his chest, the lingering scent of sleep hovering over them both.

"I'm glad to hear it," he returns. "Does this mean I'm due a promotion?" She tries to swallow, conscious of just how severely she has dampened his t-shirt.

"I'm just glad you didn't run away," she admits, feeling raw and exposed, suddenly very aware that she is sitting beside him in nothing more than one of Matthew's old shirts and bikini briefs.

"You can't scare me off," he continues, rocking her gently as his hand cups her head. "No matter how hard you may try. Remember, we ogres are thick-skinned. Although that blasted cat of yours just might before the week is over."

"Andromeda's not that bad," she argues weakly, trying not to let her nose drip on his sleeve.

"No. She's worse." Her ribs rattle as her spine straightens.

"Wait," she interrupts, laying a hand on his chest. "Did you just say week?"

He looks at her in silence just a moment, laying his palm atop her own.

"Yes," he answers softly. "I'm planning on staying until you can manage on your own or you kick me out. Whichever comes first." They stare mutually, breaths mingling, bodies touching, the moonlight on his features toying with her emotions until she hurts.

"Even though I kissed you?" He's uncomfortable, she sees it, and she wishes she could take back her question, kicking herself yet again for saying what she shouldn't.

"I told you not to worry about that," he insists, turning her body to face him directly. "And for God's sake, it' not as if it were unpleasant or anything." The sides of her mouth tug upwards.

"So you enjoyed it?" she goads, unable to stop herself, remembering his unmistakable physical reaction to her in the shower.

"Of course I enjoyed it," he whispers. "I'd be an idiot not to. You're one hell of a kisser." He suddenly looks boyish, unsure of himself, and she feels herself falling hard and fast for a man whom she is certain just wants to be her friend.

"I'm glad you think so," she returns, her limbs beginning to tremble.

"There's no thinking to it," he murmurs, his voice barely audible in the darkness. "It's a fact." She feels something electric, a pull, a tug, and he sits motionless, dark eyes asking for something she fears misinterpreting yet again.

"You must be pretty good yourself," she offers. "At least I think you are. I dreamed about it." A grin that borders on goofy erupts across his face.

"You dreamed about me kissing you?" he asks with the eagerness of a child just handed an unexpected gift. "Damn. I'm better than I thought." She whacks his arm, and he flinches. "Was that in your dream, too?" he questions, rubbing his shoulder. "My kissing was so overwhelming it made you violent?" She eyeballs him wryly.

"I was going to tell you the rest of it," she teases. "But I don't think I will now. And what a shame. I was enjoying myself immensely until I woke up." She hears his breath catch.

"So I had you crying out in ecstasy," he muses with an overly-satisfied expression.

"And what if it were the other way around?" she tosses back, watching him bite his lower lip.

"Hmmm," he retorts. "I like that even better. Did you have me tied to a chair?"

"God, you're worse than Sybil," she exclaims with a roll of her eyes, making him laugh.

"Sybil ties up her husband?" he shoots back. "Now that is interesting. Although I shouldn't be surprised after what you said to me last night. I blame those fairy tales your mother read to the two of you."

"What did I say last night?" She knows how she must look, but she can't remember their conversation, only fragments of feelings, impressions of touch.

"Something about huffing and puffing and blowing down my trousers," he answers, his dimple flashing at her reaction. "And then you suggested I cook for you naked."

"I did not," she protests, feeling much too hot all of a sudden.

"Well, you did suggest that I wear a towel," he concedes with a shrug. "But I decided a loin cloth would be more comfortable."

"Was this before or after you set the kitchen on fire?" she questions, enjoying how his brows ricochet into his hairline.

"Oh, come now Mary," he muses. "You know I could never set the kitchen on fire without you."

They both realize what he has said at the same moment. She's shaking inside, she can't help it, and they're so close, hovering, questioning, fearing rejection, needing to know.

"What are we doing, Charles?" His smile fades, replaced by a look so tender she nearly melts at its impact.

"Taking care of each other," he breathes, his hand moving to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking the curve of her bone. "Helping each other forget, I suppose. Teaching each other to trust again."

She nods, still lacking an answer but taking what he offers, closing her eyes as his lips graze her cheek. She senses it, his vulnerability reaching out to her own, just there, no more than a whisper, pulled back into security before boundaries are crossed that cannot be retread. It soothes her even as it pricks at her heart, leaving her confused yet fluttering inside. He then picks her up in his arms, carrying her back to her bedroom, taking such care with her knee as he deposits her softly on her mattress.

"You can stay in here if you like." Her words stop him before he steps away, and he raises up fully, looking down on her with measured uncertainty. "My bed is much more comfortable than the sofa, and there's plenty of room." She fears she is gushing, so she clears her throat, searching for at least a sense of composure. "I promise not to come on to you again. You needn't worry about that."

His shoulders drop, his face hidden in shadows.

"And here I was hoping you were going to tie me to the bedpost," he returns, drawing a chuckle from her.

"Well," she hums. "It's always nice to leave something for another time." With that he laughs before tucking her in, moving deftly to the other side of her bed before sliding in with a bit of hesitation.

"Are you sure about this, Mary?" he questions before settling himself down into the pillow. "I can go back to the couch if you prefer." She's not sure why she needs him beside her, but she does. He has become an odd sort of security blanket, one that covers her completely even as he makes her question everything about herself.

"Do whichever you prefer," she answers, staring up at the ceiling. "But you're welcome to stay here. No ropes attached. Although Andromeda might get jealous." His chuckle reaches out to her in the moonlight.

"I was beginning to wonder if you had sprinkled my shirt with catnip," he muses, making her shake with a fit of giggles. "That bloody feline wouldn't leave me alone."

"At least it was your shirt she was after," Mary returns. "Can you imagine if it had been your boxers?"

"That's the stuff of nightmares," he shudders, making her laugh even harder. "Please don't tell me your cat was in your dream last night." Her nipples perk up at the memory, his proximity making them harden all too quickly.

"An ice queen doesn't kiss and tell," she hums. "Especially where her cat is concerned."

"And does she share the same concern for her ogre?" She turns her head to look at him, trying not to jostle her knee.

"That depends," she teases, biting her lower lip.

"On what?" he throws back, his face just there. "On if you cook breakfast for me in that loincloth tomorrow morning," she retorts with a hum.

"God, woman," he shoots back. "You're impossible, you know. I've already answered your front door for you in a towel."

"And look how well that turned out," she retorts. "Sybil adores you."

"A rousing recommendation if I've ever heard one," he snorts. "The way she kept grinning at me, I thought she was going to slip a pound note or two down my ass." A cackle breaks free, instigating more laughter from him, and the bed shakes in merriment as they both seek to catch their breath.

"I wouldn't put it past her," she finally breaks in. "So what do you say? Will you serve as my naked chef tomorrow? I tip better than my sister." He laughs freely.

"I'm frightened to think just how you'd try to tip me," he insists. "It might send me to the emergency room, and then where would we be?"

"I promise to be gentle," she hums, all too aware of body parts now hidden.

"Said the woman who has kicked me out of her bed and whacked my shoulder," he quips. "And if I refuse to cook in such flimsy attire?"

"Then I guess I'll have to huff and puff and blow," she whispers, feeling his side of the mattress shake slightly.

"Don't tempt me like that," he breathes on to her mouth, so close she can still smell toothpaste mixed with slumber. There's a shift, almost imperceptible, but there, and it hums over her skin, making her aware of him on every level. She can't tell if he's still teasing her or not, so she ups the ante, feeling bolder than she should.

"Why, Charles," she grins. "What big hands you have." One daringly slides up her arm.

"The better to throttle your neck with," he murmurs, withdrawing his hand with sigh. "No go to sleep, Mother Goose."

She wonders what would happen if she kissed him now, hard and open-mouthed, inviting and sober. He might kiss her back, might touch her skin, might bare himself to her even as she opens herself to him. Then again, he might move back to the couch and out of her life. She can't risk that—not now. Perhaps not ever. She needs him too much.

"Aye, aye, Captain Hook," she yawns, reluctant to close her eyes, no matter how weighted they feel as they settle in together, so close yet still worlds apart.

* * *

 

What the hell is that noise?

A persistent humming makes her groan, and she pushes herself up on her elbows, blinking away the sunlight as best she can in protest of morning's arrival. She then hears the sound of the tap being turned on in the bathroom, and she assumes Charles is about to shower. It's his phone making all that racket. She picks it up to see 4 missed calls and 2 texts. Curiosity and concern get the better of her, and she clicks on his text icon, noting the two missed ones are from someone named Lucy.

_I've tried ringing your flat at least six times. Please call._

She swallows down a lump forming in her throat, wondering just who Lucy is and what so urgently requires Charles's attention.

_You're worrying the family, I hope you know. Please text me to let me know you're alright._

Lucy…his sister, perhaps? Her hand trembles as she looks towards the bathroom, smiling as the sounds of him singing carry through the walls. She takes a deep breath to steady her nerves, wondering with every touch of her fingers if she is barging in too close.

_This is Mary. Charles is fine, just in the shower. I'll have him call you as soon as he's finished._

She stares at her text then back at his pillow, finally biting her lip as she haltingly presses "Send". Nothing happens. He moves from _Oklahoma_ to _South Pacific,_ and she wonders if he's planning to cover Rodgers and Hammerstein's entire repertoire before emerging when his phone vibrates in her palm.

_Mary? This is Lucy, Charles's sister. Have we met?_

Oh, well. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thinks.

_No, but I saw your text and didn't want you to worry about him. He's staying at my flat to help me as I 've recently sprained my knee and can't walk very well._

She is now extremely curious about the woman on the other end of her messages as a hearty round of _Younger Than Springtime_ hits her ears.

_A sprained knee? That has to be painful. He helped me when I broke my leg when we were kids. I was horrid with crutches. He has never stopped teasing me about it._

She chuckles to herself, already liking this sister she has yet to meet.

_Crutches are instruments of torture. And I tease him as relentlessly as he teases me._

God, now he's moved on to _The Sound of Music_. How long does it take this man to shower?

_I'm glad to hear it. He deserves all of it and more. Let me know if you ever run out of fuel. I'll send insider's information._

A wave of curiosity tickles her spine.

_I''ll keep that in mind. It's always helpful to have a knowledgeable source._

_Big sisters always know the truth._

She laughs audibly into the room just as the water shuts off.

_Please tell him that our sister Sharon has gone into labor. He's going to be an uncle again very soon._

So that's the urgent business- a new baby. Her heart squeezes painfully at the lack of children in her own family and all that such emptiness represents.

_He's nearly done, and I'll tell him about Sharon. We'll have to chat again later. It's been lovely meeting you, Lucy._

She stares at the screen, wondering what the rest of his family is like, envisioning meals around a large table, laughter and debate over wine and dessert when the phone vibrates yet again.

_Same to you, Mary. He's been keeping you a secret from us, you know. I'll have to reprimand him for that._

Her eyes widen just as he opens the door, and she tries to smile naturally, knowing she's been caught no matter what she does now.

"Did my phone ring?" he questions, toweling off his hair. "Sorry. I thought I had it on vibrate."

"You did," she responds. "But it was vibrating like mad." He tosses her a sly grin.

"I'm sure there must be worse ways to be awakened."

"Yes," she tosses back. "Your snoring being one."

He laughs, reaching for his phone which she pulls it back instinctively.

"Sharon has gone into labor," she gushes, still gripping the evidence in her palm. "Lucy has been trying to contact you, evidently."

"Ah," he replies, tightening the other towel slung around his hips. "I hope it goes well. This baby was a bit of a surprise for both her and Donny."

"Do they have other children?" Mary asks, her palms starting to sweat.

"Two boys," he answers. "This will be their third and last, according to Sharon. She's forty-four, and this pregnancy hasn't been easy on her." She bites her lower lip, feeling a pang she can't explain before his phone vibrates yet again. "You can hand it over now," he grins, extending his palm towards her. She relents with a sigh, completely uncertain of just how he will react to her conversation with his sister. Her stomach tenses as his brow furrows and his eyes dart in her direction.

"Charles," he reads aloud. "I've just told Mum about Mary. She wants more information immediately."

"She told your mum about me?" she asks, sitting up straight in the bed. He ignores her as his fingers glide across his phones surface, snatching a photo of her looking tousled and confused before she realizes what has happened. "What the hell did you just do?" she demands, pulling the blanket higher too late to matter.

"I'm complying with Lu's wishes," he states. "Sending more information immediately."

"Don't you dare send that photo to your sister," she insists, cursing her limited mobility as she reaches form him in vain.

"It's done," he returns, far too pleased with himself as her cheeks heat rapidly. "Ah, look, a reply. I wonder what Lucy has to say?"

She stares daggers at him as he sits on the edge of her bed.

"She's stunning, even first thing in the morning. Rob says, 'Well done,'" he recites.

"Who's Rob?" Mary asks, wanting to murder Charles and slide under the bedclothes simultaneously.

"Lu's husband," he answers. "Oh, she adds that I'm a complete ass for taking a picture of you when you obviously weren't expecting it and hadn't had time to brush your hair."

"Which is why I like her better than you," Mary retorts, sliding her fingers through her locks self-consciously. She starts as her own phone vibrates on the bedside table. There's a mad scramble, but he beats her to it, standing with his treasure in hand and beaming back at her smugly.

"It's from Sybil," he informs her. "She says, 'I know Charles is there. Tell him I said good morning.'"

"Dear God," she murmurs, rolling her eyes as he begins to text her sister.

"Good morning, Sybil," he dictates as he writes. "This is Charles. Do me a favor and don't leave Tom tied up for too long."

She grabs a small pillow and hurls it at his head, just missing him and hitting the wall. Then he chuckles, obviously reading Sybil's reply.

"Well?" Mary prods.

"So good to hear from you, Charles," he reads obediently. "I let Tom out of his cage ten minutes ago, you'll be glad to know. What color towel are you wearing today?" He pauses, surveying the item in question and looks back to her. "Would you call this burgundy or maroon?"

"I'd call you a baboon, personally," she shoots back as he sends his reply.

"Burgundy," he recites to Sybil. "And Mary is calling me names now."

"I'll be fishing out the catnip later, just so you know," she shoots back.

"Sybil wants to know what I'm doing to you to elicit such a heated response," he grins in her direction. "So she can get Tom to try it on her later." Just then his own phone vibrates, and he reaches for it, only to lose his towel in the process. He curses as he bends to retrieve it, dropping her phone onto the bed while giving her a stunning view of his bare backside in the process. She grabs the phone in an instant, clicking a picture of his derriere and hitting Send before he can stop her.

"You didn't," he tries, looking back at her in horror, clutching the towel to his front.

"Turn about is fair play," she retorts, quirking a brow in satisfaction.

"Or is that fair play is about to turn?" he fires back. "On you." She laughs throatily as he ties his makeshift garment back around his waist, feeling her phone tickle her palm yet again.

"Oh look, a reply," she grins wickedly. "Forwarded the photo to Mama. She wants to meet Charles for herself at your earliest convenience."

He collapses on her bed, shaking his head in clear mortification.

"Your sister sent a picture of my naked ass to your mother?" he clarifies with a sigh. "And now she wants to meet me. What's wrong with your family, Mary?"

"More than I can tell you at the moment," she states, unwilling to travel down that path just yet. "Oh, and Sybil says to tell you that Tom sends his sympathies for getting mixed up with a Crawley woman."

He snatches her phone from her and stands up again, sending a text and giving it back to her before she can properly protest.

"I sent Tom my direct number," he explains. "If he's been married to Sybil for two years, he must have learned some survival strategies. And I'm betting he knows some dirt on you." It's his phone that buzzes this time, and he grabs it up. "The baby is here," he smiles, his relief evident. "Joshua Andrew."

"That's lovely," Mary returns with a soft smile.

"Big brothers Sean and Colin are proud as punch," he continues. "Not to mention Daddy Don. Mother and son doing very well, apparently. God, I wonder if he's red-headed like the rest of their lot?" His phone vibrates again. "It's from my mum," he states, drawing up his brows. "She's scheduling a family dinner as soon as Sharon is up to it so everyone can meet you."

She falls back on to her pillows, shaking her head at this turn of events when her own phone sounds.

"It's my mother," she tells him as he sits back down on the mattress. "She says you have very nice buttocks and wonders if we can come for dinner next week." They stare back at each other wordlessly. "What in God's name have we done here?"

The question falls from her lips, landing between them with the grace of a drunken ox.

"The hell if I know," he shoots back, ravaging his scalp. "Both our families now think we're quite the item, thanks to you."

"Me?" she retorts. "You're the one who sent that picture of me in bed."

"You're the one who texted my sister in the first place," he argues. "What else is she going to think when she gets a reply from a woman named Mary on my phone this time of the morning informing her that I'm in the shower?"

"I told her you were helping me with my knee."

"And she quickly filled in the blanks," he adds with a shrug. "And Sybil already thinks we are a couple."

"She calls you my man-slave," Mary corrects, hearing a laugh escape him at this.

"That's disturbingly accurate," he admits, looking down at his towel. "Of course, what else would she think under the circumstances of our first meeting?"

"You've got me there," Mary confesses, exhaling audibly.

"May I go and get dressed now, your majesty?" he inquires with a bow. "Isn't that how a proper man-slave is supposed to behave?"

"Sod off," she returns with a gesture to her phone. "What are we going to do about this?"

"You mean about our families?" he asks.

"Of course our families," she expounds. "How are we supposed to handle this situation we've created?" He bites his lower lip, shrugging as he looks back at her.

"As far as I can see, we have two options," he states calmly. "One—we can tell them the truth, although I'm not certain any of them will believe us."

"Sybil didn't when I tried telling her," Mary sighs. "The more I talked, the more convinced she was that we were lovers." The word sends a shiver up her legs, images of his muscled backside now vividly pressed into her brain.

"My point precisely," he nods, his voice a bit rougher than it had been.

"So what's our other option?" she inquires, half-giddy, half-terrified at what his response will be.

"We play along, of course." They stare at each other long and hard as breaths intersect and merge.

"What do you think we should do?" Her question lingers warm and enticing as he leans in close, sparks dotting her skin, instigating a powerful current that gives her goose flesh. He smells of soap and something decidedly masculine she thinks must be his natural scent. It's driving her half-mad.

"I say let the games begin," he grins mischievously, making her bite her lip in nervous anticipation as her thighs race to catch up with the rest of her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter begins with a glimpse into Charles's family from his sister's POV.

_I've tried ringing your flat at least six times. Please call._

Where the hell is that brother of hers? He's been out of touch lately, and it bothers her more than she cares to admit. She's become accustomed to hearing from him on a daily basis ever since his marriage to Freda fell apart, and she still fears for his emotional state, wishing he would get out and truly begin a new life for himself.

"I'm fine Lu," he always insists when she brings it up. "I neither need nor want the complication of a relationship right now."

But he's lonely, and she senses it—she sees it, in the deepening creases of his eyes, the sad tilt of his expression, the lost look of a little boy he lets slip when he thinks she isn't paying attention. God—if that woman is trying to sink her talons into him again now that all of his hard work and determined efforts are finally paying off in spades…

_You're worrying the family, I hope you know. Please text me to let me know you're alright._

_Please text me to let me know you're not in danger of falling for that bitch again,_ she thinks, pacing the carpet as she wills her phone to vibrate. Then it does.

_This is Mary. Charles is fine, just in the shower. I'll have him call you as soon as he's finished._

Mary? Who the hell is Mary? And Charles is in her shower? A tickling sensation races up her spine.

"Thank God," she whispers to herself, nearly giddy knowing her baby brother is both safe and finally getting out there again.

_Mary? This is Lucy, Charles's sister. Have we met?_

She closes her eyes, trying to recall every conversation they'd had over the past three weeks, mentally pulling up every pretty face at his last book signing, wondering just why Charles had failed to mention this Mary to her or to anyone else in the family.

_No, but I saw your text and didn't want you to worry about him. He's staying at my flat to help me as I have recently sprained my knee and cannot walk very well._

Ok—she doesn't know her—but Charles has basically moved in with this woman already? Of course, he could be doing it out of the goodness of his heart, but she pushes that notion aside immediately. At least this Mary is thoughtful enough to inform Lucy that her brother is safe and sound.

_A sprained knee? That has to be painful. He helped me when I broke my leg when we were kids. I was horrid with crutches. He has never stopped teasing me about it._

"Limpy Lu" he had deemed her, a nickname that had stuck all too well and still made her grit her teeth. Of course, Charles had taken it upon himself to share it with Rob right after he and Lucy had become engaged three and a half years ago. She still hasn't completely forgiven brother-dearest for that one.

_Crutches are instruments of torture. And I tease him as relentlessly as he teases me._

She likes this Mary better and better.

_I'm glad to hear it. He deserves all of it and more. Let me know if you ever run out of fuel. I'll send insider's information._

This could be fun. Yes, this could be very fun indeed!

_I''ll keep that in mind. It's always helpful to have a knowledgeable source._

A laugh that both feels and sounds evil emerges from her throat, summoning her husband from the other room.

"Who are you texting?" he inquires, clad in boxers and his favorite t-shirt she wishes he would throw away.

_Big sisters always know the truth._

"Charles's new girlfriend," Lucy smiles as she touches _Send_ , raising Rob's brows in the process.

"Charles has a new girlfriend?" her husband echoes. "When did this happen?"

"I don't know, but I'm guessing sometime over the past three weeks," she responds a bit too gleefully. "He's been pretty quiet lately."

"He's been otherwise occupied, it would seem," Rob states, leaning forward to plant a kiss on her lips before he is attacked from behind.

"You're surrounded, villain," their four year old son exclaims as he grabs his father's legs. "Give me all your money so I can give it to the poor."

"You took it all yesterday," Rob claims, raising both hands. "I am the poor now." Lucy grins at their antics as her fingers whiz across her phone.

_Please tell him that our sister Sharon has gone into labor. He's going to be an uncle again very soon._

"Likely story, villain," Edward cries out, the dark curls falling into his eyes reminding his mother that the boy needs a haircut soon.

"Take him to see Max sometime this week, alright?" she instructs her husband, receiving a nod of acknowledgement as her phone vibrates again.

_He's nearly done, and I'll tell him about Sharon. We'll have to chat again later. It's been lovely meeting you, Lucy._

She grins like a school girl, certain Charles has no idea that his new girlfriend has been texting his sister and wondering just how he'll react when he finds out. How she wishes she could be there to see his expression.

_Same to you, Mary. He's been keeping you a secret from us, you know. I'll have to reprimand him for that._

"You're looking too pleased with yourself," Rob cuts in as Edward scampers back towards his bedroom in search of his sword.

"I'm about to nail that brother of mine," she grins, biting her lower lip in anticipation as she composes another text.

_Mum—Charles has a new woman. Spent the night at her flat—that's why he hasn't been answering his phone._

Her stomach races, knowing her mother has her phone on hand awaiting news about Sharon.

_What? Details, Lucy Eleanor, and I mean immediately._

"I feel sorry for Charles," Rob murmurs over her shoulder. "He'll soon have the entire Feminine Blake Armada on his heels."

"He already has two-thirds of us," Lucy returns. "And this is good news. It's what we've all been waiting for, for someone to take his mind off of that witch of an ex-wife of his and remind him that he's got a lot to offer a woman."

_Charles, I've just told Mum about Mary. She wants more information immediately._

"Then perhaps you should leave well enough alone, Lu," her husband suggests, sliding his arm around her waist, nuzzling his nose under shoulder-length dark hair to nip that spot that tends to make her yelp. "Let Charles and this new woman find their own way while I find my way across you."

"I thought you had rounds," she hums, keeping an eye out for Edward as his finger traces her neckline.

"I still have time to go a round with you," he breathes. She jumps at his kiss, pushing him back playfully as her phone alerts her to a text.

"Oh, God," she exclaims, showing the phone to her husband. "He sent a photo."

"Well done, Charles," Rob observes with a nod. "She's a bit of a stunner. I don't blame him for going after her."

"Watch it, Doc Maguire," she warns under her breath.

"No worries, love," he replies, planting a lingering kiss on the pulse point of her neck. "I do value my life, you know."

"Unhand her, villain," Edward commands, making Lucy chuckle as Rob swears under his breath, the tip of a plastic sword planted firmly in his left buttock.

"Go a round with your son," she whispers with a coy grin. "I'll be back by the time you get home this afternoon."

He walks away reluctantly before grabbing up the four year old and swinging him over his shoulder, Edward's belly-laugh squeezing her heart.

_She's stunning, even first thing in the morning. Rob says, "Well done." But you're a complete ass for snapping a photo of her when she clearly wasn't expecting it. You didn't even give her a chance to get properly dressed or brush her hair._

She then quickly forwards the photo to her mother, pacing at a feverish pace awaiting her response.

_She's gorgeous, isn't she? Lord, they would make pretty babies._

She laughs out loud.

_You'd finally get another dark-headed grandchild. I think we have enough red-heads in the family._

She swallows down the slight sting that always accompanies the mention of more grandchildren, laying a hand over her trim waist for a fleeting moment.

_We have enough boys in the family. I'm placing my order for a raven-haired granddaughter right now. Of course, it's probably a bit early in the relationship for me to mention that to Mary._

She shakes her head at her mother and plops down on the sofa.

_Don't you think it would be wise to meet her first, Mum?_

_Of course! I'll organize a family dinner as soon as Sharon is up and about again. We'll let Mary hold the baby to see how she is with children. That's always a good test._

Lucy's eyebrows fly up, remembering how Freda avoided Sharon's boys and Edward as if they carried the Bubonic Plague.

_I'll see if I can manage a way to meet her this week. Will prod Charles for more information and will try to procure her phone number. I really enjoyed exchanging texts with her._

She stares at Mary's photo yet again, trying to piece together a basic personality framework.

_Good work, Lucy. Report all findings to me. Wait—getting a text from Donny._

She holds her breath, hoping all has gone smoothly for her older sister.

_Joshua Andrew is here! And Sharon was marvelous, Donny says. Another gingersnap, it would seem. Now I must meet Mary as soon as possible. Will text Charles immediately._

"I'll say it again," Rob breathes from over her shoulder, making her heart jump. "Poor Charles."

"Yes," Lucy smiles back at her husband. "Poor Charles, indeed."

* * *

 

"You're getting quite good at those, you know."

He watches her maneuver past the kitchen corner without falling, nodding his head at her accomplishment on the crutches that have made her curse repeatedly.

"Yes," she tosses back edgily. "I'm quite the professional now. Perhaps I'll only procure two bruises today rather than four."

"Tsk, tsk," he returns, shaking his head. "You are much too hard on yourself, you know. Have you ever considered patting yourself on the back once and a while?"

"I would," she answered, dropping slowly to the couch beside him in relief. "If I weren't afraid the attempt would knock me over."

He chuckles under his breath, earning him a look that warns him he is treading on thin ice. God, she's adorable when she glares at him like that, and he fights back the urge to grin like an idiot.

"So you're not a master at crutches," he shrugs, noting that she and Andromeda are staring at him with identical expressions. "Soon you'll be able to put those away and simply rely upon that brace."

A puff of air from her nostrils accompanies a hard look at said medical device, effectively conveying her lack of affection for it, as well.

"Oh, yes, this attractive brace," she observes sarcastically, looking at it in disgust. "It almost looks as lovely as my knee."

"Your knee has improved over the past three days," he states. "The swelling has gone down."

"But the bruising is more pronounced," she sighs, falling back into the cushions and raking fingers through uncombed hair. "I look like a gorgon."

"A very pretty gorgon," he offers, fighting back the urge to stroke her hair. "And you smell much more pleasant, I assure you."

"Been sniffing gorgons again?" she retorts. "You do like to live on the edge."

"I'm here with you, aren't I?" he shrugs, returning his focus to his laptop, feeling her eyes burning a hole in him nonetheless. "Besides, we ogres have no fear of gorgons. Only Ice Queens."

"Nice save," she half-grins, the over-sized shirt she slept in falling off one shoulder just so. Well, there goes any chance of further productivity this morning. His editor will be texting soon, and the messages will be most likely be far from flattering.

"Would you be up for an outing this weekend?" She shrugs, staring back at her leg as she wrinkles her nose.

"That depends on what sort of outing it is," she replies.

"I'd like the particulars to be a surprise," he answers, avoiding her eyes in a teasing fashion. "But it's a work-related function this Saturday that I think you might enjoy."

"Wait," she interjects, touching his arm. "Are you asking me to be your date?"

That's exactly what he is asking, but he cannot be too obvious, so he flicks his eyebrows at her playfully.

"Well, we are supposed to be a hot and heavy item," he muses with a shrug. "Why not have as much fun with our roles as we possibly can?" Her brows crease, and she is clearly mulling over his suggestion.

"And I won't embarrass you?" she questions, making him sigh in disbelief. "With my crutches and balloon-sized knee?"

"Are you really asking me such a stupid question?" Her gaze intensifies.

"Are you really brave enough to call me stupid?"

"Touché," he grins, eliciting a small smirk from her. "And, no. Who in their right mind would ever be embarrassed to be seen with you?" Her gaze drops as she clears her throat, and she leans over his shoulder as his focus returns to his laptop.

"What are you writing?" she asks, attempting to peek at his screen.

"That, my dear, is also a surprise," he returns, closing the lid and setting it on the table.

"If you're some sort of master criminal contacting his minions, I don't want to know about it," she muses, gazing at him pointedly.

"And all this time I was hoping to lure you to the dark side," he sighs, shaking his head. "Our food is better, you know."

"Says the master of eggs and bacon," she retorts with a nod.

"And tongue," he adds quickly. "Don't forget the tongue."

"So you keep saying," she tosses back. "But I have yet to be shown any evidence of this claim."

Damn it. His body responds for him before he can think, and he steadies his breathing purposely, already anticipating the cold shower he will most certainly need. He then scoots towards her, watching her eyes round and dilate, wondering what she would do if he actually kissed her like he meant it.

"I'm happy to demonstrate whenever you're ready to bite," he teases, feeling her breath quicken as he shifts to hide evidence of his mounting arousal. She swallows audibly, clearly mulling something over as her eyes drop to her hands. "Mary, I…"

"Go ahead." He freezes in place, shaking his head to clear up what has to have been a sexually-frustrated hallucination.

"What did you say?" he stutters, hating the eagerness in his tone he is trying so hard to mask.

"You heard me," she returns, sounding bolder. "Bite me, Blake."

A well of feeling gurgles up from his chest, shaking his rib cage as his breath comes in ragged snatches. And then it happens. He laughs. Damn it all to hell. Christ, he's laughing like an idiot, and he can't stop. She stares at him like he's grown a third ear, her face an unnatural shade of white. Of all the bloody moments to get tickled beyond salvation.

"I'm glad you find an invitation to kiss me so amusing," she half-snarls, leaning away from him with an expression he can't quite make out. "I won't ask again." This is getting out of hand all too quickly, and he clasps her arm to assure she won't attempt to leave.

"I'm sorry, Mary," he manages, gulping air just to have it spew out of him again. "It's just..it's just the way you said it. Bite me, Blake."

God, what a lousy impression of her voice, but he sees her chin quiver and her lips press together before a full-fledged cackle breaks out of her lungs. Tears pour from the creases of his eyes, and his stomach begins to ache. He grabs her shoulder, she leans into his chest, wiping cheeks and touching limbs in response to something never meant to be amusing.

"You sound nothing like me, you know," she insists, her voice quivering before laughter overtakes them both again. God, his sides are hurting.

"That's because you're difficult to pin down, Mary Crawley," he states, slowing his breathing just in time to see her face become vulnerable yet again. "Very difficult." He feels her pull back, the loss of her touch leaving him cold.

"I know I'm not exactly easy," she states, all merriment now gone as she brushes the remnants of laughter from her skin. Hell. This is not how he wants her to feel.

"Nothing worthwhile is, you know," he breathes, sitting up taller to face her directly, his breathing still heavy.

"And you think I'm worthwhile?" His heart skips a beat, his chest tightening instantly, and he feels completely exposed before her as he wills himself to maintain eye contact.

"I know you are," he whispers, daring to take her hand. "You just need to start believing it." Her eyes look nearly black, pools of endless depth he could gaze into for hours.

"And what about you, Charles? Do you believe you're worth it, too?" He inhales loudly, puffing his cheeks as he summons the courage to give her an honest answer.

"I don't know anymore, Mary. I wish I could tell you." She squeezes his hand, exhaling into the space between them.

"I think you are, for what it's worth," she confesses, her eyes fluttering in a way that makes him shiver. "I don't know what I would have done the past few days if you hadn't volunteered to stay." He gently traces her knuckles with his the pad of his thumb, willing to sell his soul for the ability to read her mind.

"If I remember correctly, I insisted on staying," he muses. "You were ready to toss me out the window."

"I was bluffing," she returns with a grin, the smattering of pink crawling up her neck making her all the more precious to him. "But only about the window. Not about kicking you down the stairs." They chuckle softly together, and his breath catches at the tender intimacy of it.

"So you settled on pushing me out of bed?" he continues, feeling rather like a schoolboy rather than a grown man. She bites her lower lip, clearly weighing her words carefully.

"I shouldn't have done that." Silence descends, the fact that their hands are still connected making his heart pound uncomfortably.

"I've recovered you know," he shrugs. "As best as one can after so grievous a wound." She nudges him hard, hissing as she jostles her own knee in the process. "See what happens when you try to do me physical harm?" She shoots him another one of those looks.

"What fairly of ill luck did you bribe to follow me around, Lord Ogre?"

"I went straight to Maleficent herself," he muses. "Only the best for you, my dear." Her nose twitches in a manner new to him, and he memorizes it, filing it away for when he cannot sleep and needs to keep her close.

"Usually I'd be flattered," she quips. "But next time, second best will do." Her attempt to hide her discomfort fails miserably.

"Would you like to prop your knee while I fix some breakfast?" he asks. She nods quietly, and he stacks her two favorite pillows just the way she likes them, hoisting her outstretched leg gently atop them as slowly as he can.

"I'd like to try to go into the office today." He looks back at her in surprise, staring at her knee in concern.

"Do you think you can manage?" he asks, leaning forward on his elbows. "For all your progress, you're still not that adept when it comes to those things." She stares at the crutches with a grimace.

"I know," she admits. "I thought perhaps you could drive and help me get situated and then pick me up early." His heart pulls and tugs in her direction, and he knows he would take her anywhere she asked.

"So now I'm your chauffer?" he goads with a grin, doing his best to shrug it off, failing miserably.

"I believe man-slave was the term we settled upon," she corrects with a slant of her eyes.

"I prefer house elf," he corrects. "At least that way, I stand a chance of someone taking pity on me and offering me a sock."

"If you start begging for socks, I'll break your wand," she hums, eliciting yet another chuckle as he stands.

"Remember, the wand chooses the wizard, Mary. Mine is loyal to a fault."

"I think it's also charged," she notes, a sly grin erupting across her face as he feels his cheeks overheat.

"The better to zap you with, my dear," he fires back, suddenly hot all over at the wicked grin she is sporting.

"Now who is reading naughty fairy tales?" she breathes, as he moves back to sit beside her. He can't stay away from her for ten seconds.

"What can I say?" he manages. "You're a bad influence. I'm sure your mother would be quite proud."

"My mother," she whispers to herself as her eyes round exorbitantly. "God, we're having dinner with her tomorrow evening."

"I know," he replies. "We'd best get our story together on what we're going to say." Her face falls into her hands, and she shakes her head back and forth.

"Why, why, why did we do this to ourselves?" she questions before raising back up to look at him.

"Because you couldn't keep your hands off of my phone," he answers smoothly, earning himself a backhanded smack on the chest. "I'm sorry," he adds. "Did you want me to drive you to work or drop-kick you?"

"Don't threaten me," she returns. "I'll text Lucy."

"You play dirty," he declares, checking his pocket for his phone to make certain it is out of her reach.

"I play to win," she grins, and he wants to kiss the hell out of her.

"Yes, I'll drive you, your highness," he bows. "Because I'm such an honorable ogre, you understand. And it just so happens that I need to fetch some clean clothes from my flat, anyway."

"And I thought it was simply _eau de ogre_ I was smelling," she muses, wiggling her brows mischievously.

"You should be so lucky," he returns, forcing his gaze away from the fullness of her lips. " _Eau de ogre_ is a potent aphrodisiac, so I'm told."

Eyes fasten upon each other, unable to let go, holding on for dear life.

"Do you think we can pull this off?" she asks with some hesitation.

"Our clothes?" he asks. "Absolutely. Your brace…that would be unwise." Her eyes narrow dangerously.

"How about your wand?" she voices steadily. "Pulling that off could prove to be rather amusing."

"Don't even try it," he warns, watching her roll her eyes. "Well, on second thought…"

"I mean our families, for God's sake," she cuts in with a sigh. "My mother is very observant. If we're going to make her believe we're a couple, we going to have to be convincing."

"We certainly convinced Sybil without any difficulty," he reminds her.

"Because you answered the door in a towel," she huffs. "If you show up for dinner in your boxers, I don't think my mother will take you very seriously."

"She'll seriously take me for an idiot," he corrects. "Although I must say that meeting your mother has me terribly intrigued. Ask her to bring along her collection of annotated fairy tales, if you don't mind."

"I'll see what I can do," Mary states. "And I think she'll like you. She appreciates clever men."

"So now I'm clever," he returns. "I have moved up in the world. Perhaps receiving a sock isn't such a pipe dream after all."

"I'm happy to sock it to you," she tosses back.

"Don't I know it," he hums, ducking just in time.

"But she will ask questions," Mary states, picking up where they left off. "And we need to know what to say."

"Well, we met in a bar," he shrugs. "It's the truth, and you did tell Sybil that, didn't you?"

"Yes," she answers. "But where do we go from there?"

"Simple," he muses. "You couldn't keep your hands off of me and insisted I take you back to my flat immediately, where you literally fell into my bed without a second thought."

"If you text that to Lucy, I'm sending her the photo of your ass," she warns.

"As your mother has already seen it, I'm not certain things could get any worse," he observes flatly. "God, how am I supposed to make eye contact with her all evening?"

"You'll manage," she fires back. "Now as to our story…"

"I think our story stays as it is," he interrupts. "We met at a bar. A hooligan was coming on to you. I stepped in, we acted like a couple, and then we began talking. When you hurt your knee, I came over to help you, and things progressed from there. The simpler we keep it, the less likely we are to mess up." She nods thoughtfully, clearly mulling over his suggestion.

"What's your favorite color?" His question catches her off-guard before she realizes what he is doing.

"I have two, and I'm afraid they're rather boring," she sighs. "Black and white." He grins appreciatively.

"That suits you, actually," he observes. "Any guesses as to mine?"

"You're being unfair," she throws back. "You didn't have to guess mine."

"I'll guess something else," he returns. "Now what's your answer?"

"Brown," she states, narrowing her gaze. "Or green. Something natural and down-to-earth." He smiles back at her appreciatively.

"Very impressive," he states, his brows creasing in surprise.

"They're the primary colors of your flat," she shrugs. "You know I pay attention to those things."

"You are an interior designer," he observes. "I shouldn't be surprised. And it is green. Any shade of it, actually. Now, what do I have to guess about you?"

"My favorite flower," she replies. "Any boyfriend worth his salt would know that one."

"Hmmm…" he ponders. "You're a horribly complex woman, yet your tastes tend to be straightforward. I suspect you love lilies, have a soft spot for wildflowers, but deep down, although you're loathe to admit it, you have a passionate and abiding love for roses." She stares at him, nearly slack-jawed as his flashes her a satisfied grin. "I'm good, Mary," he dares, swallowing hard as she licks her lips slowly. "You must admit, I am good."

"What color?" she fires back. "Let's see how you manage this quest ion before you proclaim your accolades too loudly." He scrolls his memory, searching pointlessly for any clues.

"White?" he guesses.

"Yellow," she corrects, and he hangs his head in mock defeat as she laughs.

"I honestly almost said red," he admits, opening his hands. "It is classic, passionate, and goes so well with black and white." She gives him a nod of acknowledgement.

"I don't know why, but yellow roses have always been my favorite," she states.

"They're cheerful," he observes. "Yellow always represents hope to me, that no matter how gray things may get, the sun will shine again eventually."

"You're rather quick with words, you know," she muses with a flick of her brow.

"I read thesauri in my spare time," he shrugs nonchalantly.

"You do realize that to the Victorians, a yellow rose symbolized jealousy?" She watches him closely, and he leans into her space.

"And today?" he questions. "What does it represent today?" The scent of rose petal lotion washes over him like a high tide, dragging him into her undertow with no life raft in sight.

"Friendship," she whispers, her eyes moving continually. "Joy and affection."

"Then I should send you some yellow roses," he breathes, stroking a lock of her hair as his skin begins to prickle. "They would seem to fit our relationship, and I must do better in the area of showering you with gifts if I'm to play the part of the devoted boyfriend." Or lover. Or man-slave. Or practically anything she asks him to be.

"I have no objections," she returns, blinking quickly. "To being showered with gifts, that is." His heart is pounding, and he is overwhelmed by her, aching to hold her, to kiss her, to lose himself in her mysteries and never seek to be found.

"Do you know what I think?" Her eyes have rounded completely, her lips almost forming an "O" as his fingers dance lightly in her hair.

"What?" she asks, the timbre of her voice nearly an octave lower, and he wonders if she is enjoying his touch or is scared out of her mind.

"That what we need to practice is physical contact." His statement renders her speechless, it seems, and he takes advantage and nudges her cheek with his nose, feeling her gasp underneath his touch. Hell, he may regret this later, and she may well kick him the groin, but he can't bring himself to move away now, not when her skin is beckoning his mouth with an insistence he doesn't want to ignore.

"Why do you say that?"

He can barely hear her, and she hasn't moved, frozen beneath his touch even as he begins to overheat.

"Because if we're lovers, we should be comfortable touching each other," he manages, trying his best not to squeak. "And holding hands with each other. And kissing quite frequently." He scoops up her hand, interlocking their fingers as he slowly rubs her knuckles across his lower lip before encircling one with his mouth. God, she tastes like ambrosia, and he's nearly drunk at the nearness of her. She jumps slightly, and he draws back, unable to lure her eyes back to him as her chest flutters with the speed of a butterfly's wings.

"You can't do that in front of your mother, you know," he hums through his parched larynx. "After all, she thinks I've kissed you in far more intimate places." She shivers, her face flushing in an instant, yet she nods without a word.

"I know," she agrees shakily. "It's just that…that was…new." New and perfect, and more than a little dangerous, he realizes.

"Now relax, Mary," he instructs, feeling anything but relaxed himself. "Pretend we're a couple. Pretend we've kissed hundreds of times, that we move from one kiss directly into another without being able to stop ourselves. Pretend we've undressed each other in the moonlight and have held nothing back, that you've seen and touched every part of me, that I've kissed and explored every part of you. Pretend we've been intimate to the point of laughter and relaxation. Pretend we're in love."

The words flow from him without control, just as they have from his fingers to his laptop when his mind fixes around her as it does all too often these days.

"We're in love," she whispers to herself, nearly sending him over the edge as he shudders all over, leaning into her slowly, swallowing hard.

"Yes," he breathes on to her lips. "We're in love." He nearly chokes on his own admission, drowning in all that she is and how much of him she has unknowingly claimed. God, this woman and what she does to him, how she reaches places he had believed inaccessible, how she makes him burn without even wanting him in return. Then he touches her lips with his own, rubbing softly, grazing and sampling just so, and hers flutter just beneath his, making him start as a strong jolt runs up his legs.

"You can't do that in front of my mother," she mutters, making him laugh raggedly as he cups her face.

"I won't," he assures her, his voice huskier than it had been just seconds ago. "But perhaps we should practice again. Just to get used to it."

"You're right," she nods haltingly, trembling beneath his touch. "Just to get used to it."

Neither of them move. Then foreheads come together, breaths intermingle, and for a moment it is real—she does love him—she is his—and he claims her mouth as if he has the right, nipping, soothing, nudging his way inside the wonders of her essence. She opens for him and his tongue slides in, the heat of her mouth driving him forward with an insistent rhythm that takes over. His arms hold her closer, her hands reach up to his face, and he melts at the sensation of her thumbs tracing his cheekbones, coming close to his ear, weaving ever closer to his heart. He cups the back of her head, angling slightly, giving himself better access as her tongue teases and taunts him until he is nearly mad. He pushes deeper, she opens further, and they are buried in each other. God, he feels like he is home here, with her in his arms, her taste on his tongue, her breath in his mouth, the treasure of all she is so close yet so far. Sweat beads across his forehead as slender fingers clasp his shoulder, and he wants her in a way that almost frightens him.

"Mary," he whispers, her name dripping from his tongue before he can stop it. How far his marriage seems from him now, a black chapter in his life that brought him such misery after the glow of blind adoration faded into a stark and cold reality. His past is dark, yet she is alive and warm, this self-proclaimed ice queen who is kissing him back with a heated ferocity that muddles his brain. But the she trembles and pulls back, and he draws her lower lip through his teeth, her shiver reverberating all the way to his groin. Her stare is hypnotic, the mussed nature of her hair, the swollen redness of her lips enough to make him want to declare his feelings for her on the spot. But that would frighten her away, he is certain, for there are parts of her that still cling to an old lover who left her marked and branded in ways she doesn't yet fully understand.

"I think that was rather convincing," she gasps, her fingers still splayed across his face, her eyes heavy and hooded.

"So do I," he voices, clearing his throat awkwardly. "You're rather good at this, you know." She bites her lower lip, and the almost bashful smile she gives him nearly constricting his lungs.

"So are you," she whispers. "Especially the way you use your teeth." God, he's about to explode all over the sofa, and he inhales audibly in a futile attempt to reel in regions ready to boil over.

"I could do it again, if you like," he offers, trying to keep his voice somewhat steady. "Do you have any particular spot in mind?' Her gaze leaves him in a fog until she tilts her neck slightly, pointing to the spot just below her ear.

"Here," her throaty reply instructs him, making his soul and body throb for her. Christ. What has he instigated?

"Your wish is my command," he murmurs, leaning in as she tilts her head back, exposing her neck, his thumb shaking as it moves slowly down the marble slope. She hisses, he echoes just before his lips dot her pulse, and he takes her lobe into her mouth, hearing her moan as her fingers press into his scalp. He is not going to survive this charade. He feels her breasts rise into his chest, senses her nipples pebbling beneath fine cotton, and he knows she is at least affected by him. His teeth then graze her sensitive spot, and she jumps, crying out as she gently pushes him away.

"My knee," she breathes, and he is mortified to realize the movement has caused her pain.

"I'm sorry," he gushes, helping her right her position, feeling her slip back from him into a realm of uncertainty. "So very sorry, Mary. I didn't mean…"

"It's alright," she assures him, her eyes full of something he cannot interpret. "We'll just have to be bit more careful when we…when we practice." He takes her hand again, staring at it, wondering what her engagement ring had looked like, remembering how it had felt to take off his wedding band just weeks ago out of defeat.

"Of course," he agrees with a smile. "And perhaps it would be wise for me to keep my teeth to myself until your knee has further healed." Her gaze narrows slightly, and he feels rather than hears her sigh.

"Perhaps," she responds without looking at him, and he prays she is at least slightly disappointed. "I hate this bloody brace, you know, and all that goes with it." He hates that he is the one who put her in that brace in the first place.

"I know," he says gently. "But it won't last forever. Soon you'll be up and moving around on your own without difficulty, and you won't need me anymore." Her stare makes him uncomfortable, and for a moment he thinks he sees a flash of pain in her eyes.

"I don't know," she responds. "It's rather addicting having a man-slave around. Who will cook for me when you leave?"

When he leaves. Dammit. He cannot stomach the thought of leaving her, and he's known her only a matter of weeks.

"Shall I just move in, then?" he questions with a grin he prays doesn't look forced. "Cook your meals, do your laundry, and shower with you whenever possible?" Her lips draw upwards playfully before breaking into an actual smile.

"If you toss in massaging my feet, you have a deal." Her toes wiggle, and he grins like an idiot, suddenly wondering how they would look painted red, how they would feel skimming across his calf, how she would react if he slipped one of them into his mouth.

"Well, if our families weren't talking already, they most certainly would be then," he muses, tweaking her toe delicately instead.

"Sybil might have a coronary," Mary returned. "And my mother would start picking out baby names."

"My mother probably already has," he states. "God, my head hurts just thinking about it."

But it's not just his head that is spinning. It's his life. He can see himself settling down with Mary, having a baby with Mary, can envision her sitting on this very couch with their child in her arms. Damn it. He knows then that there is no hope of backing off anymore, that he is committed, that he is hers in every way that matters. Now he simply must convince her of that fact. 


	9. Chapter 9

The drive to her office is horribly uncomfortable, and she shifts in her seat as best she can, intent on not disturbing her knee, determined not to dwell on him. That's rather difficult to do, however, when the man in question sits but arm's length away.

She stares at his dimple, studies the way his hair curls over one ear, and wonders just how he would react if she leaned over and did to his neck what he had done to hers. Damn it. What in God's name is she supposed to say to him after they…after she…after he… Oh God. After that kiss.

"Are you sure about this, Mary?"

His question draws her attention, and she makes herself look at him, trying not to stare at his mouth—that mouth that had done things to her she had wanted him to continue, those lips that had set her skin on fire even as they branded pieces of her soul.

"Yes," she returns, returning her focus to the road ahead. "I think it's for the best." She has to put some distance between them simply to settle her treacherous feelings and clear her muddled head. She can't think around him anymore, unruly feelings racing ahead of her, tripping on strands of emotions he does not share, tangling her in cords of entanglement that possess the power to strangle.

"Just call or text if you need me," he instructs, giving her that look that reminds her all too much of her father. "I'll be at my flat."

"I heard you the first ten times," she retorts. "I damaged my knee, not my hearing." He chuckles, and it half-infuriates her, that he can be so unaffected, that he can smile, joke and be so casual with her after the physical contact they just shared. She shouldn't let it matter, should simply re-apply her armor and seal off her heart. But it does matter because he matters. He matters far too much.

"I repeat it to make certain it gets through that stubborn head of yours," he tosses back. "Sometimes I have to chip through the layers."

"I'll chip your head if you don't watch it," she murmurs. "And I'm not talking about the one on your neck." He licks his lips slowly.

"You've been quite colorful in your descriptions of how you would like to mutilate my manhood today," he muses, enjoying this conversation far too much. "I think you're secretly fascinated by what lies within my boxers."

"I've felt what lies within your boxers," she states. "And fascinated is not the word I would use."

"Astounded? Overwhelmed? Blown away with admiration, perhaps?"

"I'll blow you and your over-inflated ego out the door," she retorts, the spark of banter both addictive and energizing.

"You can blow me any direction you wish," he grins, making her neck and thighs flush simultaneously. Damn.

"I'm not sure you could handle it," she dares, eyeing him squarely, noticing a slight bauble in his throat.

"I'd prefer you do the handling," he breathes, and she detects an edge to his tone that makes her wonder. "But not here. I'd rather not end up on the side of the road."

"Keep your pants on, Lord Ogre," she fires back, thrown horribly off-kilter once again. "Who said I wanted to handle anything of yours?" She waits for his comeback, but he inhales quietly instead.

"One can always hope," he returns softly without meeting her eyes. She stares at him, uncertain of boundaries, unable to detect set lines, and her breath catches stubbornly as her chest hollows and fills. He pulled into a parking place just in front of a simple but elegant town-house bearing a sign that reads _Designs by Mary_ , his gaze travelling from the structure to the woman whose name it bears.

"Very nice," he muses, nodding his approval. "How long have you been in business?"

"On my own?" she questions. "Four years. It took quite a bit of work to get to where I am now."

"I have no doubt," he returns. "Pursuing your dream takes drive, determination, and the ability to ignore those who continually tell you that you'll never succeed."

"That sounds as though you speak from experience," she observes.

"Heaps of it," he confesses with a weighted shrug.

"Your parents or your wife?" He purses his lips, looking directly into her as he raises his brows.

"Freda," he answers, shoving his fingers through his hair. "My parents have been my greatest supporters my entire life. I'm very lucky that way."

"Yes," she breathes. "You are."

"You seem fairly close to your mother," he states, turning in his seat to face her.

"Somewhat," she admits. "Mama and I get along well most of the time, and we do love each other dearly. We just don't always see eye to eye."

"Does anyone always see eye to eye with his parents?" he asks, eliciting a sound of acknowledgement.

"I suppose not," she returns. "But she can be particularly vocal when she disapproves of my decisions."

"She and my mother would get along famously," he sighs, easing a small smile out of her. "What about your father?"

His question doesn't surprise her, she knew it would pop up at some point. It would have to for them to convince her mother and his family that they were lovers, wouldn't it? But that doesn't stop the familiar sting and that hits every time his name is mentioned, icy talons wrapping around her ribs at the memory of his face.

"My parents divorced when I was nine," she states flatly. "I never see my father anymore." His cheeks puff, and he shakes his head sadly.

"It was ugly, then?" he guesses, and she gives him a tight smile.

"Horrible," she clarifies shakily. She knows she has to tell him, that their charade will never fly with her family if he is kept in the dark. But that doesn't make it any easier. "I had another sister, you see." His face registers utter shock, his brow creasing in concern.

"What happened?" She breathes out heavily.

"I was seven," she begins, feeling inexplicably like the girl she was, standing alone on the staircase, the scent of freshly cut lilacs washing over her at the moment her world changed forever. "Sybil was just a baby, and Edith was four." His hand has covers hers, and she doesn't pull away, his touch grounding her in a manner she wishes were unnecessary. "She drowned on a simple outing to the lake with Papa. They were going fishing, but he dozed off in the sun, and…well…" There was no need to go into further details, images she didn't want intruding yet again. She still had nightmares about it on occasion, waking up in a sweat crying out for someone impossible to find. "Mama never forgave him," she whispers, feeling his grip tighten. "I don't think he's ever forgiven himself, to be honest. She withdrew, he was rarely home, and one day she packed our bags, put Sybil and me in the car and drove us to London. And that was that."

"And he didn't try to see you or Sybil?" he asks gently. "His own daughters?"

"Not very often," she admits, wishing it didn't bother her to the extent it still does. "I think we remind him too much of Edith, of what he lost, of what he could have prevented." She swallows down regret, breathing in deeply to lighten lungs that feel oddly heavy. "I don't think he's ever gotten over Mama, to be honest. I doubt he ever will, although he did marry again a few years later. A younger woman, and she finally gave him the son he always wanted."

"So you have a half-brother," he observes, her hand still securely encased within his.

"Teddy," she smiles, shaking her head. "He's ten. Sybil and I send him gifts on his birthday and at Christmas, but Geannie doesn't like us making further contact. She's rather possessive of him and of Papa. She says we depress her husband and have a negative influence on her son."

"Bullshit," he states with conviction. "She feels threatened by the fact your father has another family, and she's too insecure to suck it up and do what's best for her child. Teddy shouldn't be deprived of his siblings. As much as my older sisters still enjoy tormenting me, I cannot imagine life without them." She tries to imagine a Blake family gathering, the thoughts of it enticingly alarming.

"You're very close, aren't you?" she asks, a dull ache of longing tugging on her insides.

"Too close at times," he laughs. "My family doesn't refrain from sticking their noses in where they don't belong or offering opinions whether you want them or not." He sighs, toying lightly with her fingers, wrapping fragile emotions around his ministrations she is helpless to untangle. "I'm so sorry about your sister, Mary. So very sorry."

God, how she wants to dissolve into this man, to let past pain evaporate into a misty memory, to allow fragile hope to strengthen, even as the mere possibility terrifies her.

"So am I," she breathes, wondering just what Edith would look like had her life not been stolen from her, just how her family might relate differently if tragedy hadn't stepped in and altered their course.

"Did your mother ever remarry?" he questions.

"I think marriage is the furthest thing from Mama's mind," she returns with a small smile. "But she always has a rich beau or two around to spoil her rotten and keep life interesting. She's horribly charming and knows how to make men dance to her tune within moments of making their acquaintance."

"A genetic trait, then," he tosses in, flicking his brows playfully.

"Don't play with fire you can't control," she warns. "She has mastered the tango. I tend to dance the Paso Doble."

"Going in for the kill," he grins, flashing his teeth in her direction. "Why am I not surprised that courting you is laced with blood magic and danger? Remind me to speak softly and carry a red cape."

"Remind me to sharpen my horns and dodge your spear," she returns, taken aback when he brings her fingers to his lips and kisses them lightly.

"Ole," he grins, and she shivers from the top down.

"Bulls-eye," she retorts, and they laugh softly together, deepening a delicate intimacy that pulls so deeply it aches. He has wormed his way in, established a foothold, created a need she can't afford yet refuses to release.

"Well, Mary. Are you ready to go in?" No, she thinks, not wanting to step back into a reality without him and she chastises herself for such entertaining such foolish thoughts.

"Of course," she lies, fairly certain she hasn't fooled him one bit.

"You don't have to, you know," he reminds her. "I can take you back to your flat and let you prop your knee up and rest."

"No," she states. "I need to do this. For my own sanity. I can only stare at the walls of my flat for so long." He squeezes her hand in a gesture of understanding.

"The Queen must survey her kingdom," he teases good-naturedly. "Complete with her magnificent carriage and faithful ogre of a chauffeur."

"Something like that," she muses, wondering just what sort of kingdom she has actually constructed over the past several years. He smiles, and she looks back at the building, this structure that represented so much yet had cost her a king's ransom in more ways than one. She cannot help but remember the time she brought a very different man here to get his opinion of the building and location.

_It's very nice, Mary. But don't you wonder if it's a bit ambitious for someone just starting out? You'll be working all the time._

_I already work all the time, Matthew. And so do you._

_Precisely._

He had stared at her in silence, hands in his pockets, something on his face she was too nervous to translate at the time, seeing clearly what she had refused to acknowledge.

"Going into business for myself was the beginning of the end for Matthew and me." It seems like still from another lifetime, yet flutters with the treachery of a tender nerves. She hears Charles breathing beside her, but he says nothing, giving her the room she needs, allowing her to set the pace. "He was so supportive at first, but my work took so much time," she continues, staring at her own hands. "We saw so little of each other between his practice and the demands of trying to secure a client-base. When he asked about the possibility of having a baby…"

Her voice trails off in time with her thoughts, and she remembers the hurt etched on his face as she told him it wasn't the right time, that it might not be for a few years yet, that if she took time off to be a proper mother, she would be throwing away a piece of herself she had fought for tooth and nail. He tried to understand, but he hadn't. Oh, God, if he had known. If he had known, nothing would have changed.

"Well," she interrupts herself. "That's another story for another day."

"The hardest stories usually are," he observes, allowing her to see something broken behind eyes that tease and shine. "Then they are pushed to another week, another month, then another year, and before you realize it, the finer details have devoured half of your insides and robbed you of too much of your life." His declaration reverberates painfully, and she winces at the truth of it. "I'm sorry," he begins, "I shouldn't have laid that on you. Not now."

"When, then?" she tosses back. "Another week?" He stares at her intently, and her gaze flickers between his eyes and his mouth, craving the heady depth of his kisses, longing for the shelter of his arms.

"I wonder what would have happened if we'd met in another lifetime?" His inquiry slides under flesh and muscle, striking nerves and stilling blood as she attempt to process its implications. "No Matthew, no Freda, no divorce, no ugly break-up," he continues, now staring at their joined hands. "No therapy, no alimony, just a boy meeting a girl at a bar one night."

She can no longer tell if she is breathing.

"You might never have noticed me if I hadn't been three sheets to the wind," she attempts, her voice barely strong enough to stand on its own two feet.

"I'd notice you anywhere, Mary," he voices. "You're impossible to miss."

Something flutters in her rib cage, shooting sparks of life intravenously until she tingled all over.

"Venus flytraps usually are," she whispers, clasping this lifeline of disbelief least she lose herself all over again.

"Why do you do that?" His exasperation is palpable, and her eyes sting instinctively as her gaze drops from one who sees too much.

"Do what?" she murmurs, knowing her ruse is pointless.

"Put yourself down so often," he sighs. "Make yourself out to be undesirable and unattainable when you're anything but those things."

"You don't know my history," she argues weakly as fears and emotions engage in a mental tug-of-war.

"And you can't see past it towards your future." Her mouth falls open, but nothing comes out, her head shaking against something she can't quite piece together. "You can have one, you know," he continues, her body shuddering in a heated shiver. "It's not as though Matthew was your last chance or determining factor."

"How do you know?" she questions, ire welling up in defense of what remains tender.

"Because I believe in you, Mary," he fires back. "Damn it—you're worth believing in."

"Oh really?" she argues, her tone rising to meet his. "And why should I listen to a man I've known for such a short period of time who still allows his ex-wife to determine his value?"

God, he couldn't look more stunned than if she had slapped him, and she regrets her words instantly, still too shaky to apologize.

"You're right," he breathes, and she shuts her eyes to pain and regret, his mingling with hers within the confines of his car. "I have no right to lecture you on relationships, none whatsoever. But I wish you'd stop ripping yourself into shreds because past relationships didn't work out, especially the one with Matthew. Two are usually to blame when things fall apart."

"Are you accepting partial responsibility for your divorce, then?" His eyes narrow slightly, and he clears his throat.

"Of course," he returns, his voice barely discernible over a passing car. "I could have been a better husband, I have no doubt of that. But damn it, I should have realized Freda and I were doomed before we ever married. If I had listened to my family and not been such a pig-headed ass who refused to see what was right in front of him, I could have saved myself a lot of heartache."

"And can you see what's in front of you now?"

His stare is uncertain, questioning, searching, turning into one of near panic that must mirror hers as she realizes what she has just implied. God—if she has exposed herself too soon, if she is misreading everything between them…

Then he kisses her. Hard.

Her breath catches in her throat as his mouth finds hers, sealing tongues, searing lips as his hands wind into her hair. She is frozen at first, shocked, disbelieving. But his breath tickles her skin, his touch unravels nerves and restraint, and she opens to him fully, allowing him to plunder her mouth as she drinks him in. Her soul soars, her mind reels, and she hasn't the heart to reign them in. This is too glorious, too wondrous, too addictive to all parts of her now humming his tune.

"We're being watched."

His whisper draws her up short, everything airborne now plummeting into a pit of her own making. She trembles as his lower lip traces her neck, wanting to push him away, needing to hold him closer, too shocked and terrified to do either. His lower lip draws languidly up her neck, his teeth on her ear.

"You are far too easy to kiss." She braces herself to push him back when an insistent rap on the window makes her jump, and she stares into an expression she wants to smack and embrace. Drugged lids, flickering dimples, full lips still moist from the juices of her mouth…this game is going to be the death of her.

"Mary!"

The distinctly American squeal makes her sigh, and she stares out the window as brilliant burgundy lips framing white teeth shine back at her.

"Hello, Ruby," she returns, knowing there will now be hell to pay in her office as she will be expertly probed for information. The car door is opened by her assistant without an invitation, and Charles smiles back at the woman as a tinge of jealousy rears its ugly head unexpectedly.

"I'm Ruby, Mary's assistant" the woman offers, leaning in and giving them both a full view of pert cleavage. "I don't think we've met."

"I'm Charles," he returns, and she fights back an urge to sock him in the gut for reasons too tangled to dissect. "We haven't. I'm Mary's…"

"Current pain in the ass," Mary cuts in, giving him a shove and a glare that just broadens his smile.

"But it's such a lovely ass," he hums with a stroke to her cheek, and she watches Ruby's eyes brighten further as she silently mouths _Oh my God_!  "Shall I fetch your crutches, my lady?" he croons, laying it on thicker as Ruby drinks in his every word.

"Get to it, Lord Ogre," she snaps back, becoming only angrier when he plants a passionate kiss just below her ear. God—her spot! He knows that is her spot—she told him it was her spot. What the hell had she been thinking?

"Ass," she whispers for his ears only, his grin tickling her nipples and firing up her wrath.

"Later," he hums, giving her a wink she wants to smack into oblivion.

"I'll get the crutches," Ruby volunteers, rushing to the back of the car to stand close to Charles, no doubt. Forget her knee—it's her blood pressure that's going to be the end of her.

"You carry these, then," she hears him instruct her assistant. "And I'll see to the queen."

"What if the queen decides to see to you?" she bites as his arms slide under her legs, hoisting her back up against his chest, much too close for her own comfort.

"The things you say to me when we're out in public," he retorts, making Ruby giggle as she races ahead of them to open the door.

"Better than what I'll say to you when we're in private," she growls, punching his shoulder as his lips touch her cheek.

"Don't worry, darling," he croons. "I'm certain Ruby can arrange a bit of privacy for us once we get to your office." Her eyes shoot daggers at him, only egging him on to irritate her further. "It would appear we can't control ourselves. So sorry if we've shocked you."

"I don't shock easily," Ruby assures him as they move past her into the building. "Trust me. And I can be the soul of discretion."

"More like the soul of indiscretion," Mary sighs audibly, making both Ruby and Charles laugh as if sharing a private joke.

"It's not as if we've been horribly discreet since we've met, now have we?" he muses, and she's not certain whose eyes widen further—hers or Ruby's.

"Details," Ruby whispers as Charles ushers her into her office. "I want details."

"Not on your life," Mary shoots back, watching Ruby smile and wiggle her eyebrows.

"I'll hold all your calls," she promises with a lick of her lips. "And I'll turn up the radio. In case things get a little noisy in here."

"You're a gem, Ruby," he observes, making Mary roll her eyes and Ruby beam as if she's just been crowned Miss America.

"You have no idea," Ruby hums, clicking the door shut and leaving them alone and unarmed.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" she spits as soon as they are out of earshot. "Kissing me like that, making those remarks?"

"Why, being your devoted man slave, of course," he grins innocently, and she shoves him back on to her desk, making him bang his shin in the process. "Ow!" he returns, rubbing his thigh. "What's wrong with you? I thought we agreed to play this charade."

"With our families," she clarifies, her heart beating treacherously in his direction. "Not in front of all of London."

"I hardly think one woman qualifies as all of London," he expounds, his brows moving into his hair line.

"Don't test me, Charles," she warns, wishing her knee were working properly and she could stalk out of the room.

"Does your family ever communicate with Ruby?" he questions with a shrug.

"Sometimes," she replies with some reluctance. "Mama stops by for lunch occasionally."

"And how much more believable is our ruse if Ruby is convinced?" he continues, and her head begins to hurt as the ramifications of their plot begin to settle.

"Alright," she exhales. "I understand. But give me some warning next time. When you kissed me like that, I thought, I wasn't sure…" She stops herself, rubbing her temples to disguise her frustration.

"You weren't sure of what, Mary?" He has leaned down until his mouth is a mere breath from her own, and he tips up her chin, confusing her even more as velvet brown renders her helpless.

"How I let you talk me into this mess in the first place." Her reply flies out, all sharp edges and icicles, and he draws back slightly, stroking her hair.

"We can stop if you like. Just say the word." The suggestion rips through her, and she gapes back at him, needing direction, craving a sign, something to let her into that complex mind of his so she can determine what is fiction and what is fact.

"That's not what I meant," she attempts, knowing she is stumbling over her own words, feeling horribly off of her game. "I only meant I don't like being ambushed. If you're going to kiss me, tell me beforehand so I can prepare." He grins slowly, twirling a strand of her hair around his finger.

"So my kisses are so profound you need to prepare yourself properly?"

"You're impossible," she breathes, shaking her head until he cups it in his hands.

"Perhaps," he states. "And you're not exactly a walk in the park, I'll have you know. But I am going to kiss you now. Consider yourself warned."

Her eyes round yet again as he makes good on his word, coming in close, nudging her mouth with his nose, opening her as a flower to the sun after the passing of torrential rains. This kiss is gentle, almost too gentle, tickling senses, pulling on heart strings with the insistence of a hungry feline.

"Was that better?" His breath is on her mouth, his forehead touching hers, and he is hot, she realizes, his skin warming to her touch. Her tongue is restless for more, making her incapable of speech as she nods her head in assent. "Good," he whispers, still connected to her, still getting into her psyche. "Shall I pick you up in three hours as we discussed or sooner?"

"Three hours," she replies, reeling in her breath as best she can before he takes her hand and brings it to his mouth.

"I have to be allowed to keep you guessing, you know," he explains with a wink, standing and walking to her door at a slower pace than necessary.

"Which is why you're an ass, Lord Ogre," she explains, receiving a smile from him that slams into her rib cage.

"Your business is impressive, Mary," he states as frivolity is unexpectedly shoved aside. "You should be proud of what you've built here. Truly."

Then he casts a look in her direction that nearly sucks the air from her lungs before closing the door behind him. Damn it all. What in God's name has she gotten herself into? His scent is still on her skin, the spice of his mouth still tingling on her palate. He's everywhere, actually, trespassing on her thoughts, intruding on her emotions, making himself at home in a flat she believed she would share only with her cat. She's on the verge of falling in love with him, she realizes with a sharp pang, and she wraps her arms about herself, not knowing what to do with this most unexpected turn of events. She can't afford to fall in love again. But can she help herself when it comes to Charles Blake? She's afraid the damage has already been done, her defenses compromised, her heart engaged without her permission.

Just what is she supposed to do now?

She settles down to unanswered mail, scanning through the past week's agenda, checking meetings Ruby rescheduled while she's been laid up with her knee. Thank God Ruby is talented enough to take care of the field work, and she knows the two of them need to sit down for a personal consultation so she can catch up and keep her clients happy and their projects on schedule. Just how often she'll be forced to field questions about a certain rogue with more charm than should be legal is her only concern. Her head throbs once again, and she presses her thumbs into her temples, attempting to summon her absent peace of mind. Her phone vibrates, and she sighs to see Ruby's name glaring back at her.

_He's hot. Bet he's steams up your skirt and wets your willy big time._

Leave it to Ruby to throw decorum out the window.

_I'm not paying you to send me lewd and inappropriate texts during office hours._

_You don't pay me enough not to._

She laughs in spite of herself.

_Why are you so interested in Charles, anyway? I thought your mind was all taken up with Lord Pouty-lips._

Ruby falls in and out of love with the frequency of a light set to an automatic timer.

_He's old news. Got way too serious too fast. Great in bed, but proposing on the third date was just a bit creepy._

_I agree. Who's the current flavor of the month?_

_A Scottish hottie, actually. Red hair and everything. Damn, I'd like to see him in a kilt. And out of one._

_Get back to work. Kilts will have to wait until after hours._

She wishes for a moment for Ruby's ability to detach herself from relationships with the ease of unfastening a coat. She's never been like that, and has held most of the world at arm's length for fear of bruising what does not readily heal. Then there's a knock at the door, and she's thankful for the distraction, hoping it is something that will keep her brain occupied for quite some time.

"Yes, Ruby?" The knock sounds again, and she sighs in exasperation as she sets down her pen. "He's gone," Mary informs her flatly. "We're not snogging madly, we're not having sex, and yes, I am properly dressed, so you needn't fear opening the door."

The door creaks in protest, as a well-manicured hand pushes it forward.

"I'm sorry to intrude," an unfamiliar voice returns, a petite brunette stepping into her office. She is well-dressed and immaculately accessorized with a simplicity that catches Mary's eye.

"I'm sorry, do we have an appointment?"

The woman advances slowly in her direction, eyeing her with a curious familiarity that makes Mary sit up taller.

"No," she admits with a smile. "I took a chance on being able to meet with you today. You're Mary, aren't you?"

Mary smiles, making a mental note to remind Ruby of her duties in screening visitors before they waltz into her private office.

"Yes," she returns, spreading her arms out apologetically. "I'm sorry I can't stand to greet you very well. You see I hurt my knee."

"I know," the woman replies, smiling back at her with an excitement Mary cannot register. "You told me that you sprained it. I'm so sorry to hear that."

"Forgive me, I'm confused," Mary tosses back, shaking her head slightly in an attempt to clear it. "Do we know each other?"

"Not formally," her companion admits. "But I've been anxious to meet you, and we have conversed via phone, albeit my brother's."

Her breath catches in her throat as realization hits her soundly. The shape and color of the eyes are identical, the manner in which they both quirk their brows, the smile, the thick, dark head of hair. Could this day get any more surreal?

"I'm Lucy," the woman states, moving forward to take Mary's hand within her own. "Lucy Maguire. Charles's sister. "


	10. Chapter 10

This cannot be happening. But it is—right in front of her—right now—right after Charles turned her brain into a puddle of mush and confusion after another damned kiss. Lucy. Here in her office. God, what is she supposed to do now?

"So nice to meet you, Lucy," Mary manages, donning her brightest smile. "How on earth did you find me?"

Lips that match her red keyhole dress smile back at her.

"I googled," Lucy admits, toying with her black patent clutch. "After I wheedled your last name out of my baby brother, that is, as well as your profession." She tugs a lock of nearly black hair behind her ear, staring back at Mary uncertainly. "I do hope I haven't crossed a line. We are all just so eager to meet the woman who has stolen Charles's heart." Her chest constricts.

"I'm not certain I can own such a lofty claim," Mary returns, gesturing to a comfortable arm chair, giving Lucy permission to sit down across from her. "We've not been together all that long."

"I know," Lucy smiles with a flicker of her brows. "Which is one reason we're all so curious about you."

"Really?" Mary stalls, waiting for her mind to catch up with her circumstances.

"Yes," Lucy grins. "You see, Charles tends to think things through rather thoroughly before he acts—he's always been that way. But here he is, completely smitten with you, keeping you hidden away from us and all to himself. I think Mum may have an apoplexy if she isn't able to meet you soon." Her cheeks now feels sunburned from too much internal heat. Shit.

"I'd be honored to meet your mother," Mary responds. "Although I'd be lying if I said the prospect didn't scare the hell out of me at this point."

Lucy laughs, a deep throaty sound that shoots straight to her eyes. She is clearly Charles's sister.

"She's promised to bypass the Spanish Inquisition," Lucy concedes, pulling a hum of approval from Mary. "And if we get too out of hand, just tell us to shut up. We won't mind." She smiles ruefully.

"There is no way I'd tell your mother to shut up the first time I met her," Mary states, her assurance widening Lucy's grin. "Or ever, in fact. Perhaps my mother, if the situation warranted it, but never anyone else's." Lucy's gaze is too thorough for comfort.

"Freda did. When Charles stepped out of the room for a few minutes and Mum continued to ask her about her family. I've never seen my mother so stunned in her entire life."

What kind of woman had Charles married, she wonders for at least the fiftieth time this week? And what on earth had possessed him to propose to Freda in the first place? The urge to hold his hand seizes her, as does the desire to stroke his hair and assure him that everything will be alright, to cradle his head to her breast and tell him that he will fully heal, to remind him that his life doesn't have to be defined by his ex and the destruction she left in her wake. Just as he has been doing for her all these weeks, she realizes all too clearly. 

"Freda said that to your mum?"

"Oh, yes," Lucy nods. "More than once."

"Unbelievable," she breathes, watching Lucy's face relax in appreciation.

"Yes. She was. In every deplorable way you can imagine and then some." No wonder Charles speaks of his ex-wife as little as possible. Something cold crawls up Mary's spine, making her feel oddly like a snowman with a temperature. Only she can't afford to melt down here—not in front of Charles's sister. "Forgive me," Lucy gushes. "I'm sorry to bring up Freda when I've come to see you."

"Not at all," Mary assures her. "Charles has told me some things about their marriage, but Freda is not exactly a topic he enjoys talking about. I know very few details, actually."

"I wish I didn't know as many as I did," Lucy admits, shaking her head. "But at least she is out of his life. Mum, Sharon and I actually went out and celebrated when he told us they were divorcing. Does that sound terrible?"

_You and Matthew are toxic together. Better to make a clean break of it, Mary. That way both of you can find someone better suited for you and be finally be happy. We'll go out and celebrate your new life once you realize that you are a complete person without him._

"No," she returns. "In fact, I think you and my sister Sybil would get along beautifully. She said something very similar to me once." Brown eyes stare into her intently.

"Are you divorced, too?" Lucy inquires with a slight tilt of her head.

"No," Mary answers, giving in to her need to be blatantly honest in the midst of this deception. "But I was engaged not too long ago. It didn't end particularly well."

"Ah," Lucy acknowledges. "I'm sorry." She waits for the wash of pain to smack her soundly, but it doesn't.

"Don't be. It was for the best." Her lips tremble as the words are voiced, but there is no bitter residue left to remind her of what was lost. Instead, brown eyes fill her mind's eye, as do thoughts of white teeth and tanned skin. 

"So was mine," Lucy smiles. "Although I thought I would never live through it at the time."

"Neither did I," Mary confesses. "But somehow we did, didn't we?"

"Yes. We did."

"I suddenly feel the need to make a toast," Mary muses.

"To the survivors," Lucy joins in, smiling in approval, holding up an imaginary glass in Mary's direction.

"The survivors," Mary echoes, savoring her own words, allowing them to linger on her palate a moment longer than necessary.

"What happened?" Lucy asks, her gently probing look rather akin to her brother's.

"Are you sure you want to know?" Mary questions, her guard dropping bit by bit.

"I'm married to a doctor," Lucy responds with a laugh. "I have a strong stomach. Believe me, I can handle whatever you feel comfortable dishing out."

God—she's stunned to realize that she actually wants to talk about Matthew to this woman. How much more surreal can one day get?

"It's hard to say," Mary begins with a soft sigh. "We were moving in opposite directions, but instead of letting go of one another, we kept trying to drag the other one along, no matter how loudly we kicked or screamed in protest. We'd been together so long, I couldn't imagine being without him. He was just a part of my life, and I thought he always would be." She stops, her mind in a remarkably peaceful state, the pang of missing Matthew now a dull throb rather than an acute sting. "It was just time, I suppose. Matthew saw it before I did. I fought him as much as I could. I can be quite stubborn when I want to be."

Lucy's gaze softens.

"You'll fit right in with the Blake clan, then," she returns. "We're all stubborn to some degree, and rather opinionated to boot." She pauses at Mary's nod, inhaling audibly. "And I do understand—all too well."

"Your broken engagement," Mary put in. "Is it alright to ask?"

"I wouldn't have asked you about yours if I weren't willing to share mine," Lucy states, her eyes dropping quickly to her folded hands. "That would hardly be fair, now would it? Especially considering the fact that I've already barged into your office uninvited with the expressed purpose of satisfying my family's curiosity about you." A grin breaks across her face, and for a moment she feels as if all they are playing at is real. Her mouth goes suddenly dry. "My story is not quite as dramatic as yours, mind you," Lucy continues, drawing Mary's attention. "Just straight-forward and painful. It was over children, or my inability to have them, I should say. James decided one day that he had been mistaken when he told me that it didn't matter to him, that we could build a family by other means. And that was that."

A weighted hush falls over the office.

"But don't you have a son?" Mary inquires, remembering Charles going on about his nephews, certain that one of the four of them had been Lucy's.

"Edward," Lucy beams, her gaze returning to Mary's. "He became mine when I married his father. You see, I'm a Type I diabetic. My doctor has told me in no uncertain terms that I should never attempt to become pregnant, that the odds of me carrying to term are slim to none, but the damage pregnancy could inflict on my health…" She breaks off, clearing her throat. "I might be willing to risk it, honestly, but when your husband is a doctor himself and knows exactly what all can happen…" Lucy breathes, looking back at Mary head on. "Well, let's just say that Rob isn't willing to take any chances."

She pauses, quickly reclaiming what composure had slipped away.

"He loves you very much, then," Mary observes, craving the warmth of Charles's touch, the light of his smile, the zing of his wit. She craves too much of him, actually, addicted to the manner in which he makes her feel like she matters simply for who she is. God, this is not good.

"He does," Lucy agrees, smiling again, "And I couldn't love a child I gave birth to any more than I love our little boy." An image of a dark headed baby snuggled warm and safe in her arms hits her soundly, and Mary starts, not understanding just how such thoughts ambushed her out of nowhere.

"I have no doubt of that," Mary assures her, her ribs tightening. "And Charles certainly adores him,"

"Edward adores his Uncle Charlie," Lucy returns. "He's wonderful with children, you know."

"Is he?" she questions, attempting to sound unfazed when she is anything but.

"Yes," Lucy states. "But I didn't come here to put undue pressure on you, Mary, or to make you think that we all expect you and Charles to marry and have babies any time soon." Mary quirks a brow in Lucy's direction.

"But do you?" she inquires flatly. "Have those expectations, I mean? My mother and sister are practically foaming at the mouth."

Lucy grins wickedly.

"I'd be lying if I said we didn't have high hopes. We all just want to see Charles happy. He deserves that."

She can still smell him on her skin if she concentrates. Damn.

"Yes," Mary nods. "He does." They look at each other, making silent judgments that seem to be favorable on both counts.

"How did you meet?" Lucy questions, breaking the silence. "Charles told me that was a conversation for another day when I asked him."

"He must have a storehouse of those conversations," Mary puts in with a roll of her eyes. "We met at a bar, actually. And I daresay he is putting off telling you because the details aren't particularly flattering towards me." Hazy images of meaty hands and slurred speech make her skin crawl, and her mind races ahead to the moment she awakened in his bed. "He helped me out of a sticky situation," Mary continues. "Matthew had gotten married that day, you see." Lucy breathes in loudly.

"Go on."

"I didn't handle it too well, I'm afraid," Mary confesses, dropping her eyes. "I took myself to a bar and drank until it didn't hurt anymore. Bad idea, by the way."

"I know," Lucy interjects. "The morning after is hell."

"God," Mary sighs, shaking her head at the memory. "Don't I know it. Anyway, another man was coming on to me and wouldn't take no for an answer. Charles stepped in, got rid of him and tried to give me a ride home. Unfortunately for him, I passed out in his front seat."

"How did he get you home?" Lucy asks, clearly startled by this juicy tidbit of information.

"He didn't," Mary admits. "He took me to his flat, carried me up the steps, actually, and put me in his bed."

"He didn't, I mean, you didn't…" The other woman's eyes are so wide Mary fears they might pop out of their sockets.

"No," she interjects swiftly. "He slept on the sofa, a proper gentlemen in all respects. But I nearly belted him with my purse the next morning while trying to sneak out. Instead I nearly got sick all over his carpet. Not exactly the most promising of beginnings." Lucy nods in response.

"The first meeting doesn't have to go well for the relationship to thrive," she points out wryly. "I wanted to throttle Rob when we first met. He thought I was an overbearing witch, and I was certain that he was an arrogant ass who didn't appreciate what he had.

" "What was that?" Mary asks. "What he had, I mean?"

"A baby," Lucy answers, her voice low and soft. "A beautiful newborn baby he barely knew how to hold. I was so jealous it hurt." A baby. Just the thought of one makes her feel like she's trying to balance on quicksand.

"So things improved, I take it?" Mary queries, shaking her head and leaning forward.

"Oh, yes," Lucy affirms. "But he is still an arrogant ass sometimes."

"Some character traits are just permanent," Mary notes.

"Yes," Lucy agrees. "Charles has always been a horrible tease, you know, ever since he was little. And that grin of his allowed him to get away with murder. God, I used to get so mad at him."

"It's the dimples," Mary muses, catching herself after the observation leaves her lips. "He still tries to use them."

"Of course he does," Lucy grins, shaking her head. "They're his ultimate weapon. Do they work on you?"

Her heart flutters precariously, that blasted grin making her ache in more places than one.

"Sometimes," Mary admits cautiously. "But sometimes they make me want to throttle him."

"So do Rob's," Lucy attest, her brow lifting mischievously. "Men."

"Precisely," Mary agrees.

"My theory is that men with dimples make the best lovers," Lucy adds, her brows lifting just so expectantly. "Would you agree?"

Mary swallows, inhaling to clear her mind as her body breaks out in a cold sweat.

"I won't argue that point with you," she returns, her lip twitching treacherously as she watches Lucy's expression brighten in satisfaction. Her skin hums in remembrance of the trail he kissed down her neck, the tingles sparked by his teeth on her ear, the warmth of his palms as he held her upright in the shower. If Charles could do that to her when they were clothed and play acting, what in God's name would it be like to…

"It's funny, don't you think?" Lucy interjects, pulling Mary soundly back down to earth. "How sometimes what first appears to be a curse turns into the very thing that you need?"

Her breath catches, her eyes widening just slightly. She needs this man in too many ways for her own good, but she's already sucked in to him, caught in a trap of her own making. Shit. Now her mind is full nothing but Charles Blake. Escaping to her office hasn't helped in that arena one bit.

"It is," Mary responds obediently, wanting a strong drink with every fiber of her being. Damned pain meds.

"Can I treat you to lunch?" Lucy asks.

"Not today, I'm afraid," Mary responds with a bit of reluctance. "Charles cooked a substantial brunch for me before he brought me in to work. I don't think I'll be able to eat again until dinner."

"How about tomorrow then?" Lucy concedes. "I can bring lunch to you if you'd rather not bother with those." Her hand gestures towards the crutches, both women grimacing.

"That would be lovely," Mary replies, half of her looking forward to spending more time with Lucy as the other half dreads bearing up to scrutiny once again. "Shall I bring it here or to your flat?" Lucy asks. "My treat, by the way." She thinks through her evening, knowing dinner with her mother will probably tax the last of her reserves.

"My flat," Mary answers. "If it's not too much of a bother."

"Not at all," Lucy states, looking as though Christmas has just arrived early. "And tell that brother of mine to clear out and give us some space tomorrow. I'm looking forward to another lovely girl chat." She stands then, extending her hand across Mary's desk and shaking it firmly. "It was a real pleasure to meet you, Mary," Lucy smiles, and Mary cannot help but smile back at the woman, wishing this farce she and Charles had crafted would magically transform into reality.

"The pleasure was mine," Mary returns genuinely, watching as Lucy bites her bottom lip in a gesture that reminds her instantly of Charles. She turns and leaving her office, leaving Mary to sigh into the emptiness, acutely aware of the fact that she is finally alone. And she hates how much that bothers her.

* * *

 

"Stop fidgeting," Mary snaps, squeezing his hand almost painfully. "My mother will be here at any moment, and you don't want her to think you have a nervous tick."

He tries to relax and tugs on his collar once again, finding himself more nervous at the prospect of meeting Cora Crawley than he rightfully should be.

"She's already seen my naked ass," he retorts, earning himself yet another eye-roll. "I highly doubt she'll notice if my fingers are a bit twitchy."

"She notices everything," Mary insists with a sigh, tugging on her loose fitting pants that cover her knee brace well. "Are you certain—"

"Yes," Charles interrupts. "Your brace is completely hidden, and you look marvelous. The answer hasn't changed in the past three minutes."

She looks extraordinary, he silently concedes, her fuchsia blazer adding a potent punch to the rest of her black ensemble.

"You don't look too bad, yourself," she murmurs, and he nudges her gently, careful to keep her securely balanced. "I've never seen you in a suit."

"Suits me, does it?" he quips, earning a small punch to his arm that makes him smile. "I thought it was time someone in your family actually saw me properly dressed. I know I wear towels well, but it's always nice to try something new."

She smiles at this, and he spots a tinge of pink tinting her cheeks.

"Just be thankful it was Sybil standing at my door that morning rather than Mama," Mary quips, and he rubs the back of his already over-heated neck. "She would have jerked the towel off."

"That makes me feel eminently better about meeting her," he retorts with a sigh. "Now I'm frightened she might ask for a table dance before dessert."

"She just might," Mary grins, clearly enjoying his discomfort. "And she tips well."

"So do I," he whispers, watching the blush creep down her neck, that glorious neck cruelly taunting him with its nearness, her alabaster skin teasing him with the need to savor with his mouth and tongue. Shit, the scent of her perfume about to drive him to his knees, and they haven't even been seated. Dinner with Cora could be a long, uncomfortable affair.

"Keep your pants on," she chides. "At least until Mama arrives. Then we can see if all of your claims to fame have any bearing or consist of nothing but hot air."

"Come now, Mary," he breathes, rubbing his thumb down the inside of her palm. "You know I am far more substantial than hot air." She shoots him a look that reads somewhere between murder and a sound thrashing before he leans over and whispers directly into her ear. "On the other hand, hot air can be extremely erotic when employed in other areas." Her mouth drops open, her breathing just barely audible, and the rise and fall of her chest is about to undo him in a very public place. God, this constant need to one-up the other will be the death of him.

"You're unbelievable," she murmurs, her crimson cheeks just begging to be kissed.

"That's what I'm hoping you'll say afterwards," he croons, chastising himself silently as his trousers continue to tighten in all the wrong places. Shit. He has no one to blame but himself.

"Now children," a smooth voice interrupts. "You mustn't discuss sex before we've had a chance to look at the menu. Why, you'll shock the maître d."

A tall balding man with a trim mustache steps forward, beaming at the elegantly attired brunette with a mix of adoration and awe.

"Mrs. Crawley," the maître d hums. "What a pleasure it is to see you this evening."

"Hello, Simon," Cora returns with a brilliant smile. "How are you?"

"Better now that you've arrived," Simon states, kissing Cora's hand as Mary rolls her eyes in Charles's direction. "Your presence never fails to brighten our humble establishment."

"Humble, my ass," Charles whispers to Mary discreetly, earning himself an elbow in the ribs.

"You remember Mary, don't you?" Cora continues, flashing her daughter a private glance of reprimand.

"But of course," Simon replies, bowing just so. "Welcome back, Ms. Crawley. Or have you married since I last saw you?" He feels her grip tighten as Simon glances in his direction, and he extricates his hand gently, sliding an arm protectively around her waist.

"Not yet," Charles tosses in, amazed at how even his voice sounds. "But I hope to remedy that oversight soon."

He feel her sharp intake of breath as his fingers dance lightly over her waist.

"My, my," Cora responds, almost able to conceal her surprise. "Things are moving quickly, indeed. You're not pregnant, are you Mary?"

He watches her expression hover between shock and mortification as she flashes him a look that states he would be better off dead than when she deals with him later.

"Don't be silly, Mama," she manages somewhat breathlessly, her eyes darting from him back to her mother, avoiding Simon completely.

"Just madly in love," he grins, noting Cora's gaze flash from his face back to Mary's abdomen. "I've never met anyone quite like Mary, Mrs. Crawley. She's an extraordinary woman."

"Cora," the woman offers, sizing him up in a glance before offering him a smile of interest. "And you're right. There's no one like Mary."

"I'm standing right here," Mary puts in, and he leans over to kiss her cheek, the heat from her skin hitting him before his lips ever make contact. "And I'd like to sit down sometime tonight."

"Are you feeling light-headed, dear?" Cora questions quietly, her gaze taking in Mary's figure yet again.

"No," Mary bites back, digging her nails into his back. "My knee is aching."

"Follow me," Simon cuts in, escorting the trio into main restaurant, guiding them through an ornately furnished room to a table situated squarely in the middle.

"Slow down," she orders under her breath, holding on to his arm for dear life.

"You should have brought your crutches," he insists as they catch up to her mother, watching them from behind her chair with green eyes that remind him uncannily of Andromeda.

"Too much trouble," she hisses back as Simon pulls out the chair for her. "And isn't this what man slaves are for?" He chuckles against her neck as he settles her gently into her seat.

"Just the tip of the iceberg, my darling," he hums, the slight shiver dancing down her spine draining all moisture from his mouth. "We man slaves are good for more than you realize."

"Please, you two," Cora admonishes with a wicked gleam in her eye. "Try to control yourselves until dessert. If you get carried away over bananas flambé, I suppose no one will mind too terribly much." Charles sits, grinning back at Cora as he positions his chair.

"And how would you describe the desserts here, Cora?" he baits, hearing Mary's sigh beside him.

"Decadent," Cora tosses back, leaning forward. "Rich, indulgent, and meant to be savored. Dessert is the very reason I keep coming back for more."

"Sounds tempting," he states, gazing at the drink list, his collar yet again uncomfortably tight.

"I've found the key to overcoming temptation is simply to give in to it," Cora states, licking wine colored lips. "Much easier and far more satisfying than always depriving oneself, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Blake?"

"Charles," he insists. "And there is something to be said for both discipline and indulgence, I would argue."

"Mary has always loved a good argument," Cora teases, her gaze moving back to her daughter. "Of course, I'm certain you've already discovered how she likes to take charge."

"Bring me something with vodka," Mary instructs the waiter before the poor man can get a word in edgewise. "And make it strong."

"Are you sure that's wise, Mary?" Cora cuts in with a lift up her brows. "Perhaps you should stick with water."

"I'm not pregnant, Mama," Mary insists, kicking his shin under the table. "And make it a Moscow Mule," she adds to the waiter, rubbing her temples. "Extra tart."

"Fitting," Charles murmurs in her direction, certain he would have quite the bruise on his shin as she kicks him yet again.

"I'll have what she's having," Cora states saucily, throwing a discreet wink directly at Charles. "It's obviously potent and irresistible."

"Control yourself, Mama," Mary instructs, matching her mother stare for stare. "I'm not feeling generous enough to share."

"Gin and tonic," Charles voices, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "In fact, bring me two." Cora picks up her water glass, toasting him wordlessly from across the table as Mary makes an almost indiscernible noise beside him.

"It's nice to actually see your face, Charles," Cora croons meaningfully, and he feels an uncomfortable heat prickle up his neck. "I'm not certain the picture Mary sent actually did you justice. Next time you should take care to photograph several angles, my dear," she continues, her focus moving to an unamused Mary. "It offers one a more complete picture."

"Some things are better kept to oneself," Mary muses, taking a sip of her water.

"I wish you'd thought of that before you sent the damned thing," he breathes, eliciting an appreciative sound from Cora.

"Don't worry, Charles," Cora assures him. "I've seen my share of men's assets. I don't shock easily."

"You don't shock at all," Mary amended.

"Does anyone in your family?" Charles inquires, picking up his water glass.

"No," Cora answers. "But Mary is the most conservative by far."

"Someone has to rein you and Sybil in," Mary explains.

"See what I mean?" Cora notes with a wave of her hand, accepting her drink from the waiter with a smile of thanks. "So tell me, Charles, what exactly do you do in life besides roam about naked in my daughter's flat?"

He nearly chokes on his water. God, he cannot stop coughing, and Mary pats him on the back, finally resorting to a smack applied with more force than necessary.

"Thank you, darling," he manages, taking another sip of water, attempting to right his voice.

"Of course," Mary returns with a smile that makes him nervous. "I know how you enjoy a good pounding."

"I simply can't turn it down when you offer," he hums, daring a swig of his gin and tonic before reaching under the table to squeeze her good knee. She nearly yelps.

"I'm in publishing," he answers, still feeling his throat constrict as he swallows repeatedly.

"A man of words, then," Cora reasons.

"You might say that," Charles returns with a tilt of his head.

"Too many words, sometimes," Mary adds, earning herself an unexpected stroke up her thigh that makes her shiver. Her eyes narrow slightly in his direction, openly declaring war.

"Don't tell me you're all words and no action, Charles," Cora insists, picking up her menu. "That's a rather dull combination."

"I agree, actually," he states, taking another sip of his drink. "Why Mary and I were just discussing the pros and cons of hot air just before you arrived."

"How interesting," Cora muses, her voice the texture of fine brandy. "And what did you conclude? About hot air, I mean?"

"That he's full of it," Mary quips, allowing a slender finger to trace a circle through his pants onto his hip. He shoots her a glance she meets head on, looking all too pleased with herself at the jerk of his thigh.

"Ah," Cora replies, allowing the word to linger on her tongue. "The question then is does he know how to use it?" He feels Mary stiffen under the table and encloses her hand within his. God, her fingers are freezing, and he gathers them into his palm, feeling her digits relax into his warmth.

"Sometimes," Mary retorts, flipping him a look too complex to analyze. "But he's teachable."

He tugs their joined hands up to his mouth, languidly kissing a knuckle he knows to be sensitive, watching her squirm in her seat.

"Very teachable, it would seem," Cora hums.

"I'm a dedicated pupil," he murmurs directly to Mary, their eyes locking with an intensity that sends him reeling. She swallows, he stares, their breathing moving into a peaceful yet charged synchronicity interrupted by the arrival of their salads.

"So I've noticed," Cora states, all teasing now absent from her tone as she studies them in the same manner he knows that his mother would. God—he now feels like a boy of twelve trying to explain away his first crush on a girl completely out of his league. His stomach falls as her chin quivers almost imperceptibly, his world spinning out of control as the cold reality washes over him anew.

For Mary is far out of his league. And he's far too in love with her to save himself from certain disaster.

 


	11. Chapter 11

"If you drop me, I'll serve your ass up to my mother."

He's holding her so close to his chest that his chuckle actually tickles her side. God, if he pulls her in any tighter, she might pop right through his rib cage.

"I think you just did that at dinner," Charles corrects her, drawing a begrudging grin across her lips. "She feasted on it and then had the nerve to ask for seconds."

"Mama's insatiable," Mary agrees, tracing her finger along the edge of his ear, gratified to feel the small shudder that travels down his torso with the speed of a frightened hare.

"Look who's talking," he shoots back, stopping midway up the flight. "And if you don't want me to drop you on your cheeky ass, I suggest you keep your hands to yourself." She bites her lower lip in amusement, thoroughly enjoying seeing just how much of a rise she can get out of him. "At least until we get inside your flat,"" he amended with a shrug. "Then you can put your hands anywhere you want on me."

"Can I get that in writing?" she questions as they reach the top of the steps. "I experience a certain thrill at the thought of wrapping my hands firmly around your neck."

"I knew you were panting to neck in my arms," he tosses back. daring to trace an unidentifiable shape on her derriere. Her buttocks pucker as her grip tightens, and he laughs at her body's response.

"I don't pant," she argues, and she narrows her eyes until she feels their tightened focus. She is more determined than ever to win this game of one-upmanship tonight.

"You do when I kiss that spot," he grins, looking rather like Andromeda after indulging in a bowl of fresh cream. Her thighs begin to tingle, and she leans in close until her nose brushes just against his.

"What spot?" she questions, shivering as his mouth locates it with practiced ease.

"You know damned well what spot," he hums. Her body clenches, waiting for him to kiss skin practically begging for his lips and tongue, but he edges back, his eyes flashing a small gleam of triumph she refuses to let him enjoy too long.

"You can put me down now, Charles," she instructs, leaning in as close as she can. She feels the bob of his Adam's apple as her lips hover just over his, parted and heavy and oh so close. His skin warms hers through his shirt, and she presses her advantage, breathing heavily on to his mouth. "I am a big girl, you know."

"And I'm a big boy," he returns, and she can see his face twitching in an effort to ignore the beads of sweat dotting across his forehead. "Besides, I wouldn't miss carrying you over the threshold," he teases, whisking her door open and gliding them inside in one fluid motion. "Perish the thought."

She eyes him without blinking, glaring at the amused twinkle in his eye that manages to target her nipples directly. Damn.

"You're an ass, you know," she admonishes as he sets her down on the sofa. "Practically convincing Mama that we're expecting within seconds of meeting her."

He laughs at this, a rich melodious sound that reminds her of fine brandy. She removes her blazer and tosses it onto the nearest chair, watching him appreciatively as he slips off his jacket.

"Oh, come now, Mary," he muses, working off his neck tie. "You have to admit that we would have beautiful children."

She launches a pillow at his head, missing him by a rather large margin but unseating an unamused Andromeda who flounces out of the room with the air of an offended powder puff.

"I don't have to admit anything," she bites back, recalling all too clearly the sharp image of a raven-headed infant that took root during her conversation with Lucy. It was the result of discussing Lucy's inability to have children, she tries to convince herself, even if the holes in that explanation are large enough for a baby elephant to traipse through with ease.

"Stubborn," he admonishes. "But you know that I'm right."

God—he is right. They would have beautiful children. But she doesn't want children, doesn't have time for them, has no room for them in the life she has planned. Does she? Shit. Questions she buried what now seems a lifetime ago crawl stubbornly back to the surface.

"Besides," she adds, doing her best to sound flippant. "I'm not exactly maternal. I'd probably be a terrible mother and doom any children I had to years of therapy and a hopeless addiction to self-help books."

His gaze is disconcerting, and it crawls into expanding chinks in her armor, making her squirm in her seat.

"What?' she demands, sitting up as tall as she can.

"Nothing," he sighs, turning to move away from her before obviously thinking the better of it. He then moves to face her head-on and makes his way to the seat beside her. The cushions give under his weight, the tug of his movement nudging her directly into his shoulder as she fails to brace herself for impact. He catches her, holding her arms firmly, not allowing her to look away from him. She's not sure she could look away, actually, nor does she really want to.

"It's just that I can't believe you actually think that about yourself," he insists, and she sees what almost resembles hurt in the creases of his eyes. It makes her feel unsteady yet again, and she wonders if she will ever sprout sea legs in this relationship destined to sail on tumultuous seas. "You'll make an incredible mother, Mary. And any children who call you Mummy will be lucky, indeed."

He couldn't have struck her harder if he were using a jackhammer. A long-buried ache pushes upon nerves that remember, and she attempts to swallow down parts of her past just too damned sensitive to air out.

"You sound so certain," she tosses back. He's too close now. Shit—he's always too close these days, even if they're in two separate locations.

"I am certain," he assures her. "You'll be an amazing mother. If that's what you want, that is."

She actually smiles as a puff of air blows out her nostrils.

"Perhaps you're just around children so much with your family that you see what you want to see in me."

God, what possessed her to say such a thing? He doesn't move a muscle but seems closer, or perhaps the room narrowed magically, blotting out everything but them and their conversation.

"Perhaps you're not around them enough," he retorts with a shrug. "How often are you actually with children, Mary?"

Her mouth opens to answer, but nothing comes out. She closes it quickly, feeling rather like a young Michael Banks being reprimanded by Mary Poppins.

"I'm waiting for an answer," he goads gently.

"Hardly ever," she confesses, dropping her eyes before he can read incriminating evidence. "And that's probably good, you know. I'd most likely succeed in only making them cry and frightening them all away."

"You'd most likely enchant them all and make them fall in love with you," he whispers, the soft texture of his voice matching that of his eyes, a dark, rich mocha that begs for her indulgence. "Just li…"

Just like….?

He stops abruptly, leaving her hanging over an abyss for which there seems to be no bottom. Her heart is pounding right out of her chest, flying haphazardly around her in circles until her whole world is spinning.

"Just like you're so capable of doing."

Her chest deflates.

"I'm capable of making men want me," she admits, staring down at hands just itching to touch him. "And of pushing them away. But of making someone fall in love with me? Really in love with me?" Her tongue thickens, and she breathes past it, sorting through images of Matthew, Kemal and a few others left in her wake. God, she feels so young and idiotic, not to mention completely exposed. "I'm not certain that will ever happen. They find a reason to leave, you know. They always do."

He is closer, she thinks, or she is, or somehow they both are. She's hot all over except for her nose and feet, both frozen to an almost comical temperature given the partially aroused state of her body. Dammit, she can't think anymore, but she feels more than she can ever tell him, more than she can admit to anyone save herself.

"Then they're not worth your time."

His hand is on her cheek, and she cannot move, can barely breathe, actually. She can only look at him, see the way one brow crooks slightly higher than the other, note the exact point where his dimples begin, wonder just how it would feel to hear him say that he loved her. Her limbs go slack at the mere thought.

"So am I worth your time Charles?"

Her inquiry hangs between them as eyes bore into each other in mutual need and hesitation. His breath tickles her cheek, the pad of his thumb soothes her cheekbone, and her gaze fixes on him in a plea she cannot voice.

"Every damned second of it."

Oh, God.

He's going to kiss her, she knows it, and her eyes widen as he leans in closer, ever closer, so close she can see nothing but him. Her pores open, her skin tingles as gooseflesh prickles sensitized nerves from head to toe. She is so ready for him, ready to taste and explore, desperate to indulge in everything that will most assuredly bite her in the end. But she can't bring herself to care at the moment, not when he is just here, looking at her as if she's the most precious thing in the world to him, making believe in the nonsensical once more.

Then noses brush, eyes close, and pure instinct takes over as a current surges everywhere at once.

It is painfully soft, the brush of his lips upon her own bearing no more weight than that of a feather, tickling her want as they carelessly build up hopes already stacked too high. His mouth closes gently over her upper lip, sampling, checking, making certain she isn't going to push him away.

She doesn't.

Lips stray haltingly downward, tugging her lower lip gently through his teeth, and her fingers dig into his arm as she moans into all that he is.

"Just like that," she breathes, unwilling to put a stop to the madness sucking them under. "God, don't stop."

"Your wish is my command," he hums, worrying her lips yet again, pulling them into his mouth, laving them with tongue and teeth until her breasts begin to beg for attention. He sucks her lip just before moving his ministrations to her jaw line, peppering a line of fire from just east of her chin to her ear lobe. He dances over her pulse point, planting a gentle kiss there reverently before his teeth and tongue go to work.

She unravels all at once.

He'll leave a mark if he keeps this up, but she finds she doesn't care. Fingers grip him hard, one hand moving directly to his head, pulling him into her neck, giving him no option other than to stoke this fire already burning between her legs. He obliges eagerly as his fingers plunge into her hair, and he lowers her gently into stacked pillows, so careful with her it makes her ache everywhere. He raises himself up on his knees, careful not to disturb her bad one dangling over the sofa's edge.

"Alright?" he questions, and she isn't sure if he means this impromptu make-out session or the state of her knee.

"Alright," she assures him, realizing in a flash she really doesn't care which one he meant. Everything is alright at the moment, eons more than alright, actually, her body now a delicious cascade of reds and yellows punctuated by flashes of hot silver too bright to take in.

He gives her a smile that makes him look terribly young, and she wonders about his first love as her hands reach out to muss his hair. How could someone walk away from him, she wonders, noting that the marks of old wounds are somehow absent as he looks back at her with what she can only describe as reverence. He clasps her arm and brings it to his mouth, finding her wrist and licking it as her head falls back into the pillows.

"Good?" he asks, his voice strumming her senses with the precision of a maestro.

"Shut up and keep at it," she fires back, and she feels his chuckle reverberate all the way down her arm, pausing to ripple at the inner cusp of her elbow before traipsing giddily to her nipples. He is in no hurry, it would seem, tasting her skin as one would an ice cream cone, savoring each lick, sampling the texture, maintaining a constant tempo until she melts under his heat.

"You're a demanding woman, Mary Crawley," he murmurs, leaning over her as his lips trace the round border of her shoulder.

"You knew that when you started this mess," she manages, her last word dissolving into little more than a hiss as his teeth nip fresh skin. Then he is devouring her shoulder and her mind goes blank as one hand traces the fabric of her neckline, and she wishes it plunged lower to grant him better access. But he creates his own portal, and she gasps as his nail tugs fabric down just so, his finger skimming perilously close to her breast as it encircles what shelters her heart.

"Still alright?" he questions with a quick glance at her knee.

"I'll shove you off if I have an issue," she bites back, feeling a noise that borders on inhuman crawl up her throat as his finger traces the lower swell. He is transfixed on her face, and she shuts her eyes, unable to adequately process the thought of him watching her come apart under his touch, unsure of just why she finds it so erotic.

"I don't shove off easily. I prefer to stick around for the long haul."

The statement is whispered into her neck, his assurance sliding over skin and muscle as she grasps him to her mouth with all that she has. Their kiss is sheer passion and need, an expression of raw hunger and inner smoke that knocks them off their feet and into a realm she cannot define. She can hear him breathing, a harsh, needy sound that scrapes across the fiery paths of want breaking out across her body. Wait—is that his breathing or her own, she wonders, forgetting the question immediately as the pad of his thumb brushes the fabric over her nipple. Her pelvis pushes up into his instinctively, the pressure unsettling her knee.

"Shit."

The word flies out unbidden, and she bites her lower lip and winces, wanting to cry and curse at the same time.

"You're hurting."

There is no question in his tone, only concern laced with the faintest trace of disappointment.

"Not badly," she returns. "It was just when you…when I…"

His finger touches her lips, lingering where he had just kissed.

"I know."

He sits back, pulling away from her slightly but not letting go of her hand. Each caress of his thumb across her palm pulses in her core, and she curses her blasted knee for its horrible timing.

"I'm not willing to hurt you again, Mary," he whispers, noticing her awkward position and reaching out to help her readjust. "No matter—"

Now it's his turn to break off, and she holds her breath until her lungs begin to protest.

"No matter how much I want you."

Want. Not love. But it is something, she tells herself, looking into this man claiming her heart bit by bit.

"You want me?"

The inquiry escapes her before her better judgment can step in, and she tastes her lower lip, noting its warm, slightly swollen state.

"You know I do, Mary," he hums, tracing a line down her bare arm that makes her shiver. "You've seen and felt the evidence on more than one occasion."

His face is liquid, his expression achingly transparent. The truth is that she wants every part of this man—emotionally and physically, finding herself squarely in the middle of a maze she never intended to navigate.

"Perhaps if we move…" she begins. God, if they relocate to her bedroom things could progress rather rapidly. Her cheeks heat without her permission.

He studies her, and she wishes she could read his thoughts. If only she could decipher how deep his want of her transcends. Is it merely physical? A rebounding urge borne from the break-down of his marriage? The result of deep loneliness and uncertainty that flourishes in the wake of being left?

"To your bed?"

His question hovers over her skin, making her spine tingle and her core burn.

"If you like."

Silence hits them hard, want and questions sucking them into a whirlpool of uncertain dimensions. The scent of arousal is overpowering now, and her tongue tingles in anticipation of tasting him.

"We are supposed to be lovers, after all."

Her words hit their target.

"That we are," he breathes, one hand cupping her cheek, the other moving downward to trace the sides of her rib cage. "But I'm not certain your knee is up for full-blown sex, Mary."

Just the words full-blown sex coming out of his mouth nearly send her into a tailspin. But he's right, and she knows it. Damn it.

"I mean, no matter what position…"

He breaks off, the red flush on his neck just too endearing.

"No matter how we try to angle things, I'm just afraid it would hurt you." His lips graze her forehead, clenching her heart at the same time they mark her skin. "And I won't do that. Especially not when we're making love."

Making love. The words rattle her nerves so soundly she's amazed he can't hear them.

"There are other ways," she dares, the throbbing between her legs reaching a near fevered pitch. "And if we're supposed to know these things about each other…"

His mouth halts her sentence, sealing her lips, occupying her tongue, delving into her very soul as one arm slides under her legs and the other around her back.

"We should learn," he finishes as she hums into his mouth. Then she is in his arms, against his chest, mouths again locked and seeking, his natural muskiness making her somewhat light-headed. She is barely aware of their movement from one room to the other, but she hears the door shut behind them.

"Andromeda," he breathes when she draws back in inquiry. "I don't want that cat to see what I'm about to do to you. She might attack me."

A small noise of approval emanates from her throat.

"Should I be frightened?"

He looks back at her directly, all signs of teasing gone from his face.

"Perhaps we both should be."

Why can't she swallow?

The mattress gives under her weight as he deposits her with utmost gentleness into a sitting position before joining her. She is trembling, and his hand reaches to envelopes hers, his breath audible and rough.

"You're sure about this?" he asks with concern. "I don't want you to feel any pressure just because I admitted how badly I want you." Christ. He is moving into even deeper territory, pushing into corners and crevices she's not certain he should see. "I don't want any regrets between us, Mary. Never regrets."

Her head is shaking before her lips can function, and she clears her throat decisively.

"You're not the only one in want, Charles. Believe me."

He half-grins at her choice of terms even as his breath comes in short gasps.

"I'm glad to hear it."

His body heat is now palpable, and she wants to stroke his chest, his back, to appreciate the texture of bare skin and coarse hair, to know him in ways she has yet to discover.

"This will change things, you know," he adds as his forehead touches down on hers. One hand moves back to his face, and she strokes the plain of his dimple, the fragile roots of new love pushing further into surprisingly fertile ground. "Even if we don't actually have sex."

She inhales at his frankness.

"Is that a bad thing, do you think?"

Her question halts his mouth's movement towards her neck.

"No," he answers softly. "But if you think it is, we'll stop now."

"No."

She doesn't even think about it, doesn't hesitate for a second, tastes the word as it rolls of her tongue straight towards him. And that word seals everything.

"Thank God."

He bends to kiss her with the intentionality of a man in love, his tongue coaxing hers into a slow dance she welcomes with everything she has. Her fingers move back into his hair as his rub her back before they dip to the front of his shirt, seeking a way inside it.

"Too many buttons, Lord Ogre," she murmurs as her fingers undo one with practiced ease.

His chuckle resonates deep, making her shiver yet again.

"Patience, my queen," he grins, assisting her in her quest to undress him. "All good things come to those who wait."

She is humming into his chest as another button gives way, feeling braver by the second.

"I think I prefer why should we wait for a really good come?"

A genuine laugh ignites her senses, and he leans in for a lingering kiss that wiggles her toes.

"I couldn't have said it better myself."

"No," she agrees, her voice deep and throaty. "You couldn't have."

His shirt hangs open briefly before it is tossed to the floor, and she rubs his bare arms, feeling heat pool behind her cheekbones.

"A t-shirt?" she teases, rubbing her thumbs underneath the sleeves. "You cheated."

"I'd say I leveled the playing field," he debates with a smirk. "After all, you do have something on under that top, I daresay."

She stares back at him from under heavy lashes.

"May I?" he questions, indicating her black shell. Her pulse throbs in her temple and she nods wordlessly, feeling unbelievably aroused by the tug of light fabric over her skin. She finds him staring at her bra—all red and reckless, his pupils dilating until his eyes look fully black.

"That's a definite improvement over my t-shirt," he manages, and she smiles wickedly.

"I'm glad you approve."

His mouth overtakes her shoulder as he toys with her strap, and she groans out a sound she doesn't recognize.

"Red suits you," he hums into her freckles as hands succumb to wanderlust. "In so many ways."

She is losing all thought, her insides becoming a gelatinous mound of putty as his fingers trace the edges of her bra.

"T-shirt first," she instructs as he discovers the clasp, and he pauses only briefly to whip it off his head, returning to intended destination without missing a beat. His skin is smooth and taut, the texture of it melding with her own as hands map unchartered territory. She hears the click of her clasp, feels binding loosen around her chest as she allows her bra to fall gently forward and down her arms.

He is speechless. Totally and unquestionably speechless.

"Come now," she breathes, fighting back an internal quaking. "I know you've seen breasts before."

She jumps slightly as his palm cups her lightly, arching forward into his touch as his thumb sneaks in to brush her nipple.

"Not yours," he utters, his mouth taking possession of her lips once again, making her unsteady on her own bed. He then pulls back, leaving her momentarily disoriented as he stands and unfastens his trousers, letting them hit the floor with a soft plop before returning to her side.

"In a hurry?" she inquires breathlessly, biting her lip at the twitch of his brow.

"I just don't want you to change your mind," he returns as his thumb draws an arc across her forehead. She smiles at him, mesmerized by the way he looks at her. "God—you're incredible, Mary. I hope you know that."

She doesn't really, but she feels it in his arms, and they hold each other chest to chest, enveloped by this mad game they created now spinning haphazardly out of control. She is warm here, sheltered and content. If it weren't for the fire blazing in her belly, she'd almost be ready to purr and stretch. What is it about simply being skin to skin that forges ties beyond description? Is it the sharing of something so commonplace yet so intimate, the bare facts of a person displayed with no disguise?

"You're beautiful," he breathes, treating her back to legato strokes and long phrases.

"Careful," she warns, drawing him up short in concern. "Don't go too low. I'm ticklish there."

"What?" he questions. "On your back?"

"Just at the base of it," she expounds. "And don't get any ideas."

"I have plenty of ideas already," he hums, tucking one finger under her chin and drawing her mouth close. "But they'll have to wait until your knee is stable. Until then…."

They kiss again, already addicted to this heady home-brewed elixir imbibed from one mouth to the other. His mouth is as hot as the rest of him, she notes, his tongue curious and tender and driving her totally insane.

"Help me," she instructs, moving one of his hands to her pants that now feel oddly tight. His breathing intensifies, and she feels his sweat as he fiddles with her clasp, the movement of his knuckles near her naval more intense than it should be. Then one arm slides around her, pulling her upright just far enough to allow them to fall part-way down her legs. She sits without grace as he gently eases the pants down from where they were hung on her knees, bypassing her injury with the dexterity of a compassionate nurse.

"The brace, too."

Her request is met with blatant uncertainty.

"That brace supports your knee, Mary."

"I'm well aware of that, Charles."

Eyes lock yet again, holding the other pair in challenge until hers back away.

"I just don't want to look like this when…"

He dips his head to her chest, encircling her nipple with his mouth, tugging it with a slow rhythm that nearly knocks her backwards. A jolt rocks her body, but she holds on for dear life as electric pulses shoot straight to her inner thighs.

"Are you trying to distract me?"

Her sentence is fragmented punctuated by a moan into his hair, pressing fingers into his scalp while his mouth works her over.

"Without question," he states, his lips hover just over her areola before skimming intentionally to her other breast. "And I don't give a damn about that brace. Trust me. It won't get in my way."

Heavy fog settles over her brain, clouding all senses save those burning under his tongue and teeth. The ache between her thighs intensifies into a low roar, and she wishes she could straddle him and ride his leg. His lips slide down her abdomen, and he kneels on the floor in front of her, kissing the muscle just above her injury as he holds her leg still.

"Anything that protects you is beautiful," he states. "Leave the brace."

"And if I refuse?"

His brow rises to meet hers.

"I'm not giving you that option."

She doesn't argue.

Limbs unravel as he slowly removes her stockings, caressing her calves until her skin breaks out in gooseflesh. He then yanks off his socks and tosses them over his head before staring back at her, barefooted and glorious. The dark hair covering his legs stimulates her for some reason, as does the smooth texture of his chest.

"So," she whispers, her body feeling temporarily paralyzed.

"So," he echoes with a half-smile before sitting beside her again. "Are you still alright?"

"If you ask me again I'm breaking your ice pick," she grins, earning herself an ambush kiss that skyrockets off course within seconds. Mouths tug at each other, seeking what they crave, pulling lips, licking tongues, teeth nipping at her chin as she marks his temple with moist heat.

"That will never do," he hums as he comes up for air, reclaiming her mouth instantly. "I value my pick."

She reaches for him through his boxers, clasping what is already throbbing for her. His moan ricochets over both of them, pulling them tightly together as she works him with her hand. A hiss hits her shoulder as hot fingers begin searching bare expanse, exploring her, mapping her, learning her with an exquisite deliberation.

"You are a big boy," she observes huskily, his ragged pant on her ear prodding her forward. He eases her back into the pillows, helping her shift her knee on to the mattress without breaking contact.

"Getting bigger by the second," he muses with a devilish grin. Her body flushes as he eyes her meaningfully, and she reaches out for him again, pouting as he pulls away long enough to grab a spare pillow. "It will be safer if your knee is propped."

"Safe sex," she muses, soft laughter merging just before mouths follow suit. He tastes like bourbon and aroused man, the combination nearly making her come out of her own skin. His mouth wonders back to her neck, and she revels in the feel of his skin under her nails, brushing against the tips of her fingers as she indulges in telegraphing the expanse of his back. Then his fingers move to one nipple, tugging, squeezing, making her cry out, the weight of him just enough to keep her from dislodging her knee.

"I've got you," he insists, stroking her hip. "But tell me if anything hurts."

Her breath remains two steps ahead of her.

"Shall I show you where it aches?" she whispers, sliding his palm down her stomach, watching his pupils grow larger by the second.

"Draw me a map," he returns, replacing his fingers with his mouth. "An interactive one." He peppers wet kisses at the base of her rib cage, then back up around her nipple, holding her leg steady as she writhes under his attentions. She claps his wrist, moving his hand down the planes of her torso intentionally. Fingers drag over sensitized flesh as eyes lock on to each other hard, her breath catching in her ribs. He pauses the progress just over her naval, tracing the edge of her panties, moving to nip at red lace with his teeth.

"May I?" he questions, looking as if he wants to treasure and devour her simultaneously. Her legs quake beneath him.

He eases down her panties at her mute nod of approval, cradling her injury with the care one would show a newborn. A shiver rocks them both as he raises himself to his knees, maneuvering scarlet lace down her limbs and tossing it to the floor before removing his boxers.

Speech deserts both of them, replaced by appreciate stares and pressing questions held silent. He settles back down on her, securing her leg before allowing his fingers to skim lightly over coarse curls.

"Am I getting close?"

His tone is rich and ragged as his touch halts just over where she needs him.

"Shut up," she manages, feeling his hum of approval as she guides his hand exactly where she wants it. Fingers brush her lightly, and she gasps into her pillow, glad now for the brace and the protection of his body. She squirms against him, and his touch moves in deeper, playing her like a violin on a continual crescendo.

"God, you feel amazing," he observes, his strokes picking up a rhythm that borders on tortuous. Then his mouth reclaims her nipple, and she moans, arching into him as she pulls his face even closer.

"Harder," she begs, and his teeth nip her just enough to shove her closer to an orgasm. He feels her response and slides a finger inside of her, her eyes flying open at the delicious intrusion. Then another moves in, and she is certain she's going to explode.

"Charles," she cries out when his thumb finds her clitoris, and he bites her nipple tenderly, making her body shake everywhere at once. God—she's close, so very close every nerve is straining towards what's just out of reach. Then his other hand clasps the breast unoccupied by his mouth and she seizes into a million shards of magic. Lights go off inside her brain, the intensity of her release pushing her into the mattress as he holds her steady, working her until she grabs his wrist.

"Stop," she instructs breathlessly, hearing him chuckle as he dots a kiss on her nose. "But don't, I mean…"

She places his palm on her sex, moving him in slow circles that spur soothing aftershocks as her breathing begins to decelerate.

"Don't stop all together," she finishes. He picks up her tempo, applying a bit more pressure with his hand, kissing her cheeks as he strokes her hair.

"That's good," she hums as her body gradually glides back to earth in a slow rocking motion. "Yes." Her arms feel like those of a rag doll, relaxed and heavy, and she smells the evidence of her satisfaction.

"I love watching you."

His eyes are nearly black, his smile too transparent. Nipples pucker yet again at his words, and she gazes back at him with lids at half-mast.

"What's good for the goose," she purrs as her palm seeks him out. He is hard and hot, his intake of breath indicating that it won't take much for him to climax either.

"This gander won't argue," he returns, stilling her hand. "But let me get a towel or something. I don't want to come all over you or the bed."

She nods wordlessly, still breathing at an elevated pace, gazing at his naked form as he makes his way to the bathroom.

"You can stop staring," he calls out from the other room, making her actually giggle into the pillow. "You've seen my ass on more than one occasion."

"You like it when I stare," she admonishes as he walks back into the room. "Admit it. And besides, it's not just your ass I'm admiring."

"Certainly you don't mean my ice pick?' he hums with a loaded grin. "The one you've threatened to mutilate so many times now I've lost count."

"I have other plans for it at the moment," she whispers, the site of his bare arousal makes her twitch internally. "Ones I think you'll enjoy."

He settles in back beside her, depositing the towel beside her reclining form just before he kisses her hard.

"I'm certain I will," he adds, grunting softly when she takes him again in her hand and drops her mouth to his neck.

"Hold on," she teases, squeezing and gripping, flush with power and tension spent. His sweat excites her further and she pumps him hard, watching in fascination as his face contracts.

"God," he utters when she finds a spot near his tip, one that makes him pull her hungrily to his mouth in a kiss born of passion and fire.

"Now I've found a spot," she breathes directly into his ear, the rippling of his muscles powerfully erotic.

"Christ," he mutters as his head drops to her shoulder, slick skin on slick skin. A sound that borders on primal vibrates into her sternum, and she feels him nearing the precipice at lightning speed.

"Here," he manages, somehow grabbing the towel and laying it across her stomach just before his body contracts and his hips begin to pump erratically. He is nearly there, and a sheen of fresh sweat slicking his skin as a deep moan rumbles in his chest. He then shudders all over, pushing her pace rapidly along with is release as he lets go across the towel and her hand. Warm life coats her fingers, and she revels in its texture before he nearly collapses on her chest.

"God," he breathes again, and she wipes her hands, folding and removing the towel before tossing it to the floor. She then holds him to her breast, losing fingers in thick hair, knowing he has given her far more than a hand job, understanding she has nearly given him everything.

He falls back on to the bed, spent and sated, quick to reach out for her and tuck her into his chest. She needs this physical connection after what just happened between them. Apparently, so does he.

"Alright?" he queries, his tone hushed and uncertain.

"Yes," she assures him, turning her face until she can see him fully. "You?"

"Yes." A pause, a hushed intake of breath. "More than alright."

She smiles and he reciprocates, his palm cupping her face, this move somehow the most intimate touch yet shared.

"Your knee?"

"Fine. It's fine." She rests her cheek on his chest, the pulsing of his heartbeat steadfast and calming. Everything has shifted now. The stakes have been upped. The emotionally tally quadrupled. She's never felt more terrified in her life.

"Do you need anything?"

You, she wants to tell him, all of you—your past, your present, your future—your promise that you won't leave me.

But he will, she fears. She is always left standing alone, regardless of what happens in bed.

"No," she answers instead. "You?"

His breath evens out so smoothly she begins to wonder if he is falling asleep.

"No," he finally breathes as his fingertips skim her arms. "I have all that I need right here."

She shivers, and he pulls her closer, tugging the blanket up over them as he kisses her temple. She could stay here forever, as warm and contented as Andromeda sunning herself.

"Did you mean it?"

The question is whispered, and he raises his head to look at her head-on.

"That I have all that I need?" he clarifies.

Her chest constricts, and she swallows hard.

"That you think I'd be a good mother?"

He looks at her in surprise before his face relaxes into sincerity. He gathers one hand into his, studying her fingers as her heart waits on tip-toe.

"I meant every word." She sighs in confusion as the weight of his hand settles on her spine. "Freda never wanted children," he begins, staring at their joined hands. "I didn't realize this until we had been married for two months, and I stupidly thought I could talk her into it."

Freda. He rarely talks about Freda.

"But you couldn't," she adds, knowing she is correct in her assumption before he shakes his head.

"No," he murmurs, his voice dropping nearly an octave. "I was such an idiot."

"Could you have continued to love her anyway?" she questions, her heart scurrying blindly. "If other factors in your marriage had played out differently?"

"I don't know," he replies. "I like to think that I could have. I know I could have respected her wishes if she had been willing to hear my thoughts about starting a family, as well. The question of whether or not to have children is a rather important one in a relationship."

"I know," she breathes, remembering discussions that sometimes went nowhere and always left her shaken. "Matthew wanted children right away."

"And you?"

The question hangs there between them before she looks at him directly.

"I wasn't sure," she answers. "About the timing. About how I would be with children. About how it would change our lives completely from that point on. There was just so much to consider."

"There is," he agrees, stroking her arm. "And you two were wise to talk about it. Freda and I were rather foolish." He pauses, obviously debating on whether to tell her something or not. "I discovered after she left that she had had an abortion without telling me."

Her skin chills instantly.

"God—my own child, Mary. I was physically ill when I found out." Her pulse pounds for another reason entirely, and she reaches out to touch his cheek, her fingers restless and cold. "I'm not certain I'll ever be able to forgive her for that," he admits, a dark shade in his tone she isn't used to hearing. His palm cups her hand, and she melts at the contact, wanting to burn away all of their past hurts and insecurities. "I'm sorry," he states, dropping his hand. "I shouldn't have unloaded all of that on you."

"You have to unload on someone," she argues, watching his face respond to her words. "And I am right here."

His expression pulls her emotional strings even tighter.

"Thank you," he whispers, making her slip even further on unsteady ground. "I'm so glad you are."

The sound of a siren blares past the window, the lights breaking through curtains casting odd shadows on the walls. He leans forward to kiss her forehead softly, making her ache at the contact.

"I miscarried once."

He raises up on an elbow, staring back at her in concern.

"Matthew?"

She nods in assent, hearing his exhale.

"I found out I was pregnant a few weeks after we broke up," she continues, wondering why her voice sounds so odd. "I wasn't sure what to do, exactly. I knew that I had to tell him, that he had a right to know, but things had been so ugly and difficult, I just couldn't…"

Her words hang in her throat as memories of lying alone and despondent in this very bed infiltrate her defenses. She'd been shocked that losing a child she hadn't planned would hurt as much as it had.

"By the time I was ready to talk about it, it was too late. I woke up one morning with terrible cramps. I knew it was over then." She doesn't realized she is shivering until he draws her into his arms, pressing his head into the crook of her neck as his fingers cup her head.

"God. I'm so sorry, Mary."

She feels somewhat detached yet fully present, as if she has been split into for her own protection.

"I've never told anyone, you know," she confesses, feeling his grip tighten. She clasps him then, emotions hitting her hard, ones she hadn't expected and didn't know quite how to manage.

"Not even Sybil?" he questions gently, pulling back to look into her yet again.

"No," she returns. Her eyes close as he brushes a strand of hair from her face. "I didn't see the need. No one could do anything, so why tell them something that would only bring them grief?"

"So you could heal," he responds with a sigh. "So you could have someone to help you through it. You deserve that, Mary."

"Did you tell anyone?" she asks, the words escaping her before she can think them through. "About the abortion?"

He looks as if he has just been punched.

"No," he confesses, gazing back at her heavily. "But I should have."

He cradles her as best he can without disturbing her knee, fluffing her support pillow before settling back in beside her. Her mind is reeling, her heart spinning like mad, but she gazes at his profile outlined by the muted lights of London.

"You would be an amazing father," she offers, watching the corners of his mouth turn up just so.

"One can always hope," he murmurs into the night, taking her hand yet again, planting a kiss on her palm. She rests her head on his chest, wondering where all of this is going in the aftermath of what has just been.

"Goodnight, Charles," she whispers, curious as to why his name now feels alive on her tongue.

"Goodnight, Mary," he replies. His tone makes her feel wrapped up in soft fleece, and she allows herself to rest in it, even if for only one night.

For with a track record like hers, how much more can she allow herself to expect?


	12. Chapter 12

He feels her stir at some point, restless and cool against him, and his arm reaches over her stomach automatically to calm her. It is then his mind registers that she is naked, completely and utterly naked.

And so is he.

His eyes fly open, and he surveys her room in the dark, blinking bleary-eyed at the clock that is telling him it is 3:47 a.m. He turns his head to make certain he hasn't been dreaming—God knows he's had his fair share of dreams about this woman, most of them involving little to no clothing—but she is real, she is there beside him. He swallows in amazement.

The blankets have shifted off of her breasts, and her nipples shimmer in the etchings of moonlight peeking in on them mischievously. _A goddess_ , he thinks to himself, his body heating anew at the sight of her, a grand a glorious being certainly far beyond what he deserves. God, the way her lips felt on his shoulder, how her nails raked over his back, that sound she made just as she was about to hurl over the edge… Mary Crawley is going to be the death of him.

She makes a sort of humming noise that pours over him like molasses, arousing him to full consciousness in more ways than one. Shit—he doesn't need this at such an ungodly hour, and he tries to talk that part of his anatomy down, knowing it's a lost cause when she her arm stretches over her head and she moans groggily yet again. He falls down on his back, shaking his head in the pillow as he tugs the blankets back over her both for her warmth and his own state of mind. Should he go and relieve himself in the bathroom, he wonders, cursing himself silently for allowing the sight of her breasts to get him in such a tither. But it's more than that, he understands, so much more. It's everything about her that fires him up and revs his motor—that flick of her eyebrow, her biting wit, her unguarded cackle that slips out when she's completely exhausted or somewhat tipsy. He's completely under her spell and has put himself there all too willingly.

And now…now…Just what does all of this mean?

He knows what it means to him, but what about her? Are her emotions as involved as his are, or is she teetering on a brink of some sort, trying to decide just how far things should proceed between them. They certainly went further than he had thought they would tonight.

_You're not the only one in want_ , she murmured, and his blood had overheated at light speed.

_But it's more than want-I'm in love with you_ , he had wanted to tell her, _completely and ridiculously head-over-heels in love with you._

But he hadn't. He had taken the easy way out and kissed her instead.

Want is well and good, but his want goes beyond what happened in this bed. It stretches into weeks, months and years, into nights by the fire and lazy mornings in bed, into ultrasounds and midnight feedings, into dance recitals and football games. And he complains about his mother and sisters running ahead of reality. God, he practically has their children named, and she very well may decide to kick him out tomorrow. He shifts uneasily, reprimanding his own wayward thoughts for taking him down this road that may lead to his own ruin. But her silhouetted form beckons him, and he turns on his side to face her again, staring at all that she is with a heart both full and terrified.

Shit, can't she snore or something—anything to distract his growing arousal becoming more adamant by the second. He shuts his eyes and buries his head into the pillow.

"Are you alright?" Her voice cracks with sleep, her body stretching languidly as she reaches out for him in the darkness. He takes her hand and brings it to his face, kissing her palm and melting at the slow, cat-like grin that emerges.

"Better than alright," he states, edging a bit closer. "You?" A throaty chuckle answers him, the fact that her eyes are still at half-mast making him burn for her even more.

"I'm cold, actually," she hums, giving him a slight tug in her direction. That's all it takes. He is on top of her in a second, lips seeking and nudging, one hand lost in her hair as the other balances himself deliberately, always wary of her knee. "You're not hurting me, you know," she whispers, her breath tickling his cheek as long fingers snake around his neck.

"Is that an invitation?" Noses nudge, his lips just fanning over hers in a deliberate tease.

"Take it as you like," she returns with a smirk he could eat. The words barely make it out of her mouth before his tongue nudges its way in, tangling with hers, instigating a kiss that makes him throb all over. She tastes like sleep, sex and woman, laced with hints of lavender and his own musky scent. It's an elixir as addictive as any drug, and he practically inhales her, her mouth and tongue making their own demands in return. Then her hands are on his back, stroking and prodding, her palms sliding down to cup his ass in a way that makes him groan into her mouth.

"Did you wake up like this?" she teases, wrapping her hand around his now almost painful erection.

"Don't act so surprised," he manages, the words nearly strangled in his own throat as she squeezes him just so. Sweat beads on his forehead, and he wonders how in God's name she can actually be cold.

"Are you implying that this is my fault?" she inquires with a tone so saucy it could be poured over meat. "I've been asleep, you know."

"That's no excuse," he tosses back with a smirk. "And those games don't work on me. I can see through that tangled maze of yours, my lady." He feels her sharp inhale, and she clasps his face in her hands, drawing him back to look at her directly.

"And just what do you think you see, Lord Ogre?"

_The future, my life, my heart, everything I thought I'd never want to give to anyone again_. But he can't say those things to her—not yet—not until he knows her feelings mirror his own or at least are travelling in the same direction. Shit, he could get lost forever in those eyes of hers, and he traces a brow with his thumb, wondering if she feels as nakedly vulnerable as he does.

"The most beautiful woman I know," he confesses, swallowing hard to get the words out. His heart is pounding, her mouth going inconveniently dry as she stares at him in silence for a second too long. Her lashes blink several times in succession, and her eyes continue to flit over his face as soft thumbs trace the lines of his cheekbones repeatedly.

"Is that the best you can do?" she challenges softly, but he hears a catch in her voice, a trace of something he recognizes as out and out fear.

"You're no ice queen, Mary," he breathes, dropping his lips to her the small crease between her brows, reveling in the warmth of her exhale onto his neck. "But an enchantress. One with eyes of onyx and crimson lips who spins intricate webs of silver and sapphire to protect herself, one whose kiss renders any man lucky enough to receive it completely hers to command." He feels her pulse pounding rapidly beneath him, and he clasps her hand in his own, kissing her fingers again, losing yet another piece of himself to this woman who might run from him if her knee would allow it. One hand makes its way down her shoulder to her torso, tracing a circle around her naval that makes her gasp softly. His lips then touch where his fingers just were, and her hands clasp the back of his head, silently pleading for more.

"You're quite the man of words," she whispers before speech morphs into a sound that turns him up another notch.

"And you're beyond description," he murmurs as his fingers trail downward until they hover over her hidden depths. "Which is hard for a man of words to admit." His mouth moves down just a fraction, just enough to make her shudder, just enough to make him reach out to steady her leg.

"Don't stop," she gasps. "Please." He raises his face to look at her, his resolve nearly buckling at the expression of raw want on her face.

"As much as I hate to say it, I think we still need to be very cautious," he breathes, receiving a groan of protest as her head flops back on her pillow.

"Then do something, damn it," she instructs, and he can't help but smile at her—at them—at this entire ludicrous situation. It's almost farcical that the very thing hindering them from engaging in oral sex or actual intercourse is the very thing that brought them to this point in the first place. "What are you grinning at?" she asks, her tone a heady mixture of need, sleep and frustration.

"You," he states plainly. "This—" Words actually fail him as he waves his hand over the bed before returning his touch to her body. "Us."

The final word is breathed into the hollow of her throat, and he thinks he will combust alive at the feel of her nails on the back of his neck.

"Is there an us, Charles?" Her question still his hands and mouth but notches his pulse forward several paces.

"Isn't there?" he hums, reclaiming her lips, sensing an affirmation in the desperation of her kiss, sharing her fire as kindling is stroked and fanned. He steadies her lower body to keep her from any questionable movements, edging his fingers further down as his mouth blazes a trail across her collar bone and towards her rib cage. She grabs his shoulders as his nose nudges her nipple, already hard, pebbled and waiting, and he lowers his mouth to her breast, watching entranced as her head leans back, exposing more of that glorious neck. "

More," she whispers as his fingers tangle in her dark mass of curls, and she tries to push up towards his hand, a movement he cannot allow.

"Patience," he soothes, his mouth hovering over her nipple just seconds before he lowers it for a hard suck. She clasps the back of his head with a soft cry, keeping him close as her fingers work his scalp until he can barely think.

"I'm out of patience," she interjects, tugging his face to hers for a kiss that nearly makes him lose it right then and there.

"Greedy," he muses, chuckling before his kisses her again, this time finally stroking her where she wants him most. A low, guttural sound makes him shiver everywhere at once, and he fights for control of his own body as he rubs and coaxes her forward. She is already shaking, and he realizes with a bit of a shock that she's as close to hurdling over the edge as he is. A finger slides in, then another, pumping and circling as she hold on to him for dear life. He then returns his attentions to her breasts, hearing her response as he tugs and suckles just before she shudders underneath him, her nails digging into his scalp, her core rocking against his hand.

"That was fast," he muses, continuing to apply the light pressure she had shown him earlier to bring her down slowly. Her breathing begins to settle as a lazy grin slides across her face.

"Do you think you'll be any longer?" she quips breathlessly, reaching for him and squeezing, nearly sending him out of his mind.

"I may be longer already," he hums, and she laughs—a throaty, sensual sound that tickles his buttocks until they clench.

"You're such an ass," she observes with a coy grin that makes him want to kiss the hell out of her. So he does.

She gives back as good as he gives, biting, tasting, holding and clasping, and he pours the truth of all he feels for her into her mouth, holding nothing back, nearly trembling with the force of it.

"Mary, I—" The words nearly fly from his mouth in a wave of emotion, and he catches himself just before uttering a declaration that might make her retreat.

"You what, Charles?" Her chest is fluttering, her eyes as wide as he has ever seen them. God, if he could only just tell her—just jump that hurdle and let the pieces fall where they may. But he can't, he can't risk losing her, not when they've just found each other in a new way. Not when the thought of her pushing him away sickens him to the point of physical pain.

"I want you," he whispers. "So badly."

Her gaze never wavers, but something in her expression shifts. He can't tell if he has said the right or wrong thing, and he's not certain she knows either. Then she exhales into his skin, a small smile tugging at those lips that taste like ambrosia.

"Soon," she states as her fingers bury themselves in his hair. "Alright?"

She looks so vulnerable it hurts him, and he caresses her face, her eyebrows, any part of her he can touch to assure her how much she means to him.

"More than alright," he smiles, touching his lips back to hers with a delicacy warring with the fire in his lower body. "You're worth waiting for." A myriad of emotions play out in the slight flicker of her eyes, and he wishes he could make them out one by one rather than catching just a fleeting glimpse into a realm he knows she guards with her life.

"You'd better be," she smirks, falling back into this game of theirs they both know is getting away from them.

"You've already had a sample," he quips, following her lead and pushing up the stakes. "And if I'm remembering correctly, your reaction was more than favorable." She grabs a hold of him again and strokes, working him over until his eyes roll back in his head and sweat beads along his spine.

"I haven't heard any complaints, either." The words ooze through her teeth and fire him up even more until he is practically seeing stars under the warmth and pressure of her touch.

"Mary," he tries, knowing he is about to spill all over her. "Let me—"

"It's alright," she breathes as she finds that spot that did him in the first time, working it insistently. "Just let go. I don't mind." He makes a sound he can't identify and crashes into her hand as his forehead makes contact with hers. His life spills out onto her stomach, but he can't stop, not now, his body clenching and throbbing until everything inside of him is completely spent. His breath has run ahead of him, his body now somehow lagging behind as a soothing stupor tries to take hold of his mind.

"God," he manages, reminding himself to swallow and inhale after crashing into the pillow beside her. "I've made a mess, haven't I?"

"You said it," she grins, reaching out to weave her fingers in his hair once more. "Not me." He tosses her as much of a reproving glance as he can manage under the circumstances before lapsing into laughter.

"Is that your way of instructing me to clean it up?" he questions, goaded on by her own deep chuckle.

"Well, you are my man-slave, aren't you?" she quips. He's more than that—they both know it now, at least that much is obvious. He leans over and finds the towel they discarded earlier, and he wipes her belly, never releasing her gaze.

"Is that what I am, Mary?" The hitch of her breath seizes his heart, and he feels her go rigid under his touch.

"I don't know," she finally admits, her limbs trembling at the confession. "I don't know what we are, actually. Do you?" He hears her swallow and kisses the tip of her nose, clasping her shaking fingers within his own unsteady ones.

"We'll figure it out," he assures her, wondering if he sounds as unsteady as he feels. "Together." She nods, and he draws her to him, holding her as close as he can without causing her pain. God, he wishes he could pull her into his skin and protect her from anything and everything that could hurt her, even though he knows he is directly responsible for the state of her knee. He kisses her forehead, she burrows in closer, and he knows then he is truly and completely lost, that she is exactly what he needs and wants out of life, that everything else is secondary, that he will do whatever it takes to convince her this is right without scaring her away.

"Sleep, Mary," he breathes, and he feels the noise she makes in response reverberate into his ribs.

"Yes, Lord Ogre," she hums, making him chuckle yet again, making him love her even more. And with the feel of her wedged perfectly into his side, he eventually follows her into oblivion.

* * *

 

She wakes to an empty bed, reaching out for warm skin and muscle only to clutch bunched sheets instead. She blinks repeatedly, understanding that he hasn't been up long, that she smells coffee, that everything between them turned some sort of corner last night in this bed. God—what happened in this bed. The way he touched her, how he held her body steady, how he kissed her with a tenderness that shook her hard. It wasn't empty, what happened between them—she's sure of that, at least. She knows the difference between blind physical desperation and actual intimacy, and they were intimate last night. But how deep is he invested in this odd relationship of theirs, how much of himself is he willing to give her?

For that matter, how much of herself is she willing to give to him?

She presses herself up on arms still shaky from sleep and smells the evidence of what they shared on her skin and her sheets. It makes her want to cuddle up next to him again and forget the world outside these walls, to lose herself in his kisses and conversation, to wrap herself in breathless caresses and sighs, and then to…to… To what? To tell him that she loves him? To risk admitting she actually wants to take a chance on building a relationship with him, to risk her heart again, even if it scares the hell out of her? Was he about to say something similar to her last night? The way he had looked at her, had held her, it had reminded her of how things had been between her and Matthew before their relationship had gone sour. Real, open, intrusive in all the right ways, but still different somehow. Charles is a very different man, she knows this and smiles to herself at the thought of such. Her edges don't seem to bother him, and she's not used to that, to the fact that she doesn't need to soften any part of her to be considered attractive or desirable. He has as many rough edges as she does.

God—if only she could read him with the clarity he seems to read her, but he's tricky, he's complex, he's a maze of alleys and bends that she cannot stop exploring for the life of her. To be honest, it's that very complexity that continues to draw her in further. She only hopes he feels the same way about her.

"Awake, are you?" He pushes open the door and sticks his face in, carrying to cups of coffee to her side of the bed before sitting down beside her. His grin is infectious, his dimples disarming, and she pushes herself up to a sitting position, allowing him to set down their cups and adjust the pillows behind her as she scoots back and settles in. Her body trembles at the touch of his fingers on her cheek, and her eyes close of their own accord as they move forward into her hair.

"I won't stay awake if you keep doing that," she murmurs just before he chuckles and leans in for a kiss. It is soft, a remembrance, an unspoken yet firm declaration that daylight won't erase what was hewn between them in darkness.

"Which is why I brewed the coffee," he returns, nodding towards their steaming mugs. "I thought with the hours we kept last night the jolt of caffeine might do us good." She can't help but blush at the intensity of his gaze, and she watches as he bites his lower lip, his eyes travelling along bare shoulders and crumpled bedding.

"Where did you learn to love coffee as you do?" she questions, picking hers up and indulging in a warm sip. "I mean, I like it, but I'm far more accustomed to tea." He takes a drink himself and eyes her directly.

"I lived in New York for two years," he answers, and her brows fly up in amazement. "I became quite addicted to the local brew while I was there, I must admit, and now I have to have my coffee every morning in order to function properly, as you well know."

"Why, you're practically an American," she laughs, and he smiles along with her, both drinking from their cups at the same time. "A complete bear without your morning drug." He rolls his eyes playfully as she indulges in another sip.

"At least I have an excuse," he dares, and she flashes him a glare that only makes his dimples more clearly defined.

"Don't make me growl," she bites back, noting the delicious spark in his eyes at her playful admonition.

"But I like it when you growl," he hums with an expression that could charm a cobra. Damn it—how does he do that so easily?

"It's better than your snoring," she goads, and he tosses her a silent _touché_ before taking another drink of his coffee. "So what took you to New York?" He clears his throat and eyes her meaningfully.

"I worked as an editor for a large publishing company in Manhattan," he answers with a small shrug.

"So you're an editor," she surmises, straightening her spine just so. "Somehow that makes sense with all of your lauded vocabulary and such." He grins at her with a slyness she tosses right back at him.

"I take it you approve?" he asks, his free hand painting a curved line down her arm.

"Why wouldn't I?" she returns. "It's a profession well-suited to a man of words."

"And if I sometimes prefer to be a man of action?" He brings her hand to his mouth, kissing her palm, never dropping his gaze from her own.

"Words without actions can become rather tedious," she breathes, setting her coffee back down alongside his as he leans in for a real kiss. She drinks him in, reveling in its newness, in how it makes her spine tingle, in how he cups her breast under the sheet until she moans into his mouth.

"I'm glad we agree," he whispers, leaning back to cup her cheek. "I would hate to argue at a time like this."

"So why are you still on top of the covers?" she questions, her back arching into his fingers as he rubs over that bare expanse.

"Because I have a meeting," he states, his face transforming into one of displeasure. "And you have a lunch date with my sister."

"It doesn't take me that long to get dressed," she quips with an arched brow.

"No," he agrees. "But we'll need a shower, won't we?" She feels her lips tug upwards in spite of herself.

"And just how long do you think we'll take to shower?" she inquires, watching as his expression contracts comically.

"I'm not sure," he returns with an exaggerated shrug. "But at least we won't have to bother with bathing suits and boxers anymore." A flush runs from her toes to her scalp.

"No," she concedes. "I suppose we won't." His eyes burn a hole into her even as they soothe what aches.

"But we'll have to behave ourselves," he sighs, and she throws him a deliberate pout. "I'll be damned if I'm going to drop you in the shower." Her eyes concede his point for her, and he reaches for her hand, kissing her fingers, her knuckles, her palm. His mouth warms her as well as the coffee, even as her nipples harden under the blankets. Then something passes over his eyes, something painful, and she watches as he tries to shake it off unsuccessfully.

"What is it?" she questions, somehow feeling entitled to know his thoughts after the intimacy of his touch. His sigh reaches her in time with his kiss, and he pulls back just far enough to look at her directly.

"Your miscarriage," he whispers. "I'm just so sorry you had to go through that alone."

Whatever she had been expecting, it hadn't been that, and her lungs constrict unexpectedly.

"It's alright," she responds, dropping her gaze to her lap. "And I survived. It's not as if we'd been trying or planning to have a baby, and I have no idea what Matthew's response would have been if he'd known, anyway." She clears her throat, her mind spiraling back to a time she'd rather not remember. "We were in a bad place then. His decision to end our relationship was final, and I'm not one to want someone to stay with me out of obligation. It would have been unhealthy to bring a child into that sort of environment."

Her heart aches as it always does when she allows herself to dwell on that short and unfulfilled chapter of her life.

"Perhaps," he breathes. "But it was still a loss to you." She cannot argue.

"A loss you understand," she adds quietly, and she squeezes his hand. They sit in silence for a moment, touch speaking louder than words ever could.

"I'll always regret losing my child," he finally whispers, the pain in his tone too pierced to disguise. "Even though Freda and I were doomed, even though a baby would have complicated things immensely." He pauses, unable to let go of her grip.

"Don't children always complicate things?" Her question draws a rueful smile from him, and he puffs out his cheeks with an exhale.

"I'm certain they do," he answers. "But not all complications are unwelcome." She feels his thumb stroke her palm, sees something in his eyes that she has no difficulty interpreting for once.

"No," she agrees. "No, they're not." She bites her lower lip, sucking in a breath she feels to her toes. "Do you ever wonder? I mean…" Her sentence fragments itself somehow, and she swallows in an attempt to complete it.

"What they would be like?" he finishes for her, nodding slowly. "Yes. You?" She nods in return.

"The strange thing is that I really didn't when I was actually pregnant," she admits, startled at how odd claiming that condition feels on her tongue. "It was afterwards, after I lost him that I began to wonder what he would have looked like." The hollow spot aches in her stomach, reminding her of its emptiness.

"He?" he echoes with a small smile. "You think your baby was a boy?" Her baby. It still stuns her somehow that she had carried another life in her body, even if only for a few weeks.

"I'm not sure," she confesses with a sigh. "Just somehow, when I think of what happened, it just fits in my mind. Does that sound strange?" He kisses the top of her hand yet again.

"Not at all," he answers with a shrug. "I think of my baby as a little girl." He pauses, stroking her knuckles with his thumb, the creases around his eyes cracked but soft.

"Even with all of the boys in your family?" she questions, drawing out a thoughtful grin.

"Especially with all of the boys in my family," he returns. "My mother is panting for a granddaughter in the worst way. You should probably be aware of that before you actually meet her."

"Forewarned is forearmed?" she muses, his soft chuckle releasing something inside of her smooth and rich.

"Something like that," he agrees. "I'd hate to have her frighten you off."

"I don't frighten easily," she quips with a half-smirk. "Besides, my mother already suspects that we're pregnant, no thanks to you." Something presses in her rib cage at the thought of it—of carrying his child, and she's certain she sees her feelings mirrored in his expression. God, it's far too soon to even be contemplating such things, they haven't even established the depth of their feelings for each other. And she has never been one to make a hasty decision when it comes to long-term relationships. Perhaps that is her problem—she thinks too much and risks too little.

"Until you drank her under the table, that is," he muses with a raised brow, making her cheeks heat in spite of herself. "That just may have possibly convinced her otherwise."

"Well," she returns with a low hum. "There is that. Although I wouldn't bet on it. Mama has a way of seeing only what she wants to see sometimes."

"Don't we all?" he nods with that sideways smile that gets to her. He touches her again, on her arm, and then progresses to her shoulder, her neck, until his hand rests just under her ear. His thumb caresses her cheek, and he looks at her—really looks at her in a way that makes her feel both exposed and covered.

"And you, Lord Ogre," she breathes, half wanting to halt the words already forming in her mouth. "What is it you want to see?" She hears his breath hitch softly and watches as his eyes lower then refocus on her face.

"You," he breathes shakily. "All of you." A sheen of sweat beads on the back of her neck.

"Be careful what you wish for," she warns. "Parts of me are not so nice." Her heart flutters precariously as he chuckles into her shoulder.

"Parts of me are downright ugly," he admits, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger before kissing the side of her neck. "But I think you already know that." Ugly is the furthest word from her mind as her hands trace the surface of his chest.

"You have an odd way of recommending yourself to me," she muses, hearing his approval vibrate under her ear.

"What was it you said?" he whispers. "Forewarned and forearmed?"

"Do I need to be warned away from you?" she questions, a low, insistent pounding beginning to pulse in her ears.

"Only if you scare easily," he replies. She traces his eyebrows, noting the hopeful yet fractured expression, emotions she understands all too well. "Ogres aren't to everyone's taste, you know."

"Neither are Ice Queens," she muses quietly, swirls of panic and assurance taking up a precarious waltz.

"I find them strangely tempting," he grins, licking his lips suggestively. "And horribly addictive. In fact, I'm experiencing a rather strong craving for frozen royalty right now."

"An ogre with a taste for ice," she hums in her chest as his teeth nip her earlobe.

"Fire and ice," he breathes into her skin before branding that spot on her neck with his mouth. "Two elements you possess in equal measure." She leans forward to kiss him this time, drawing something deeper than lust or physical want from him. Parts of her soul merge into his lips, and she holds him with trembling hands, needing what he offers, wanting more of this—of him—of them, this here and now, this living and touching in the present even while dealing with the pain and loss of their pasts. "I need this complication," he breathes into her mouth headily, his palms cupping her face.

"So do I," she manages, tugging his mouth back to her own, branding him with her teeth and tongue, marking him as a part of her life in ways she could neither decipher nor release. He tastes like coffee and cream with just enough of his own flavor to make her tingle all over. Then tingling morphs into a low pulse, one that reverberates into his hands and chest, one that spurs him on to kiss her with a need that consumes her.

"I thought you said we didn't have time for this," she questions before his lips cut hers off rather abruptly.

"I'm an idiot sometimes, Mary," he states, that raw, husky edge creeping back into his voice. "And you must pay no attention to half of what I say. I thought you knew that by now."

"Can I get that in writing?" she questions as his mouth begins its descent down her throat.

"Only if I'm given editing rights," he returns, his fingers silencing her comeback until all thoughts of further conversation completely leave her mind.

* * *

 

"Do you need anything else?"

She is sufficiently comfortable on the sofa, her knee propped and pillowed, her crutches and a glass of water both within arm's reach.

"I think I can manage," she answers. "I'm not an invalid, you know."

"You have a strange way of acting like one when there's something you don't want to do," he quips with a pointed glance. "Such as washing the dishes, doing the wash…"

"That's enough," she interrupts with a reluctant grin. "Besides, I'm just waiting on Lucy to arrive. How difficult can it be for me to get up and open the door?" He doesn't answer at first, his eyes tracing the short journey from her seat to the door two or three times in a row.

"Just be careful," he instructs, and she tosses him an eye roll at his over-protective behavior. "Shall I lock Andromeda in the bathroom so she won't get in your way and trip you?" The cat eyes him warily, and he wrinkles his nose at the feline in return.

"Careful," Mary cautions. "I think she heard you."

"I hope she did," he returns. "If that cat makes you fall again, she'll find herself on the balcony tonight." Andromeda stretches languidly, clearly unfazed by his threats. "Alright, I'm off," he continues, rubbing his hands together anxiously. "Text or call—"

"If I need anything," she finishes, smiling saucily as Andromeda decides to curl up on her lap. "My phone is right here." She holds it up obligingly, wiggling it in the air as he raises his brows into his scalp. He walks to her and leans down for a kiss, his hand reaching back to cup her head, her lips parting for his most willingly.

"Don't listen to anything Lucy says," he adds as he steps back reluctantly, stroking her cheek. "Unless it's flattering towards me. Then listen by all means."

"Is that why you're dawdling?" she questions pertly, feeling his sigh on her cheek before he moves to open the door. "Because you're afraid of what your sister and I will discuss?"

"I fear it may be the stuff of nightmares," he muses, adjusting his jacket. "Are you sure…"

"Good-bye," she tosses back, picking up her magazine and turning her face away from him. "Shut the door on your way out." She sees him bow out of the corner of her eyes and fights off a grin as she hears the lock click into place behind him. How utterly quiet and cold it suddenly seems. They have finally moved his clothes out of his suitcase and into her closet, and he has constantly teased her about barely having enough space to hang 3 pairs of trousers and two shirts. She knows he is bringing back more of his clothing today, and she stares at her flat, amazed at just how natural it now feels to have him here, even though he is technically still a guest. Does she want him to stay on in a more permanent basis? God knows her bed is certainly warmer than it was just weeks ago. How can the flat in which she has lived alone for years feel so spacious when he's been gone for no more than five minutes? And just how pathetic does this fact make her?

She sighs, staring at the clock, refusing to spend the next half hour brooding over whether or not she should just break down and ask Charles to move in, flipping mindlessly through the pages of _Vogue_ as her eyelids begin to sag. Her sleep had been lacking last night, and she smiles at the reason for it, her breasts tingling yet again. She sets the magazine down, knowing she isn't paying any more attention to it than she is to the cars passing by outside, and she allows her eyes to close. God, this feels good. Her mind goes blank, her body feels boneless, and she allows herself to drift off into blessed nothingness.

A sharp rap on her door wakes her immediately.

How long has she been sleeping—twenty minutes? Thirty? She blinks repeatedly at the clock, realizing it has been closer to fifteen, and she shakes herself awake, reaching for her crutches and hobbling toward the door. "You're early," she begins as she opens the door. "I wasn't expecting you until…" Her voice cuts off mid-sentence as she stares at another dark-headed woman in confusion. "I'm sorry," Mary recovers. "Can I help you?"

The shorter woman eyes her warily, sizing Mary up with eyes even darker than her own.

"I don't know," her unexpected visitor answers. "I was given this address, but I'm not sure that it's correct. I'm looking for a Charles Blake. Does he live nearby?"

"Was he expecting you?" Mary questions, certain Charles wouldn't have left one pending appointment for another had it been planned.

"Who are you—his secretary?" The remark bites like arsenic, and Mary feels her ire rise at the derisive sneer gazing back at her in designer pumps.

"And who are you—his hair dresser?" Mary flicks her brows meaningfully, standing as tall on her crutches as she can manage.

"You're too saucy to be a secretary," the curly-headed woman muses as her eyes narrow. "You must be the new flavor of the month." Mary's throat goes dry at the ugly implication.

"Excuse me," she returns, preparing to shut the door. "I'm very busy at the moment, so if you have no further business with me—" The woman slides past her, gliding into the flat and sizing it up with the precision of a realtor.

"He could have done worse, I suppose," she hums as Mary stares back at her in shock. "How long has he been staying here with you?"

"I don't recall inviting you in," Mary states firmly, nudging her body up against her open door.

"You didn't," the woman admits with a shrug. "But that hardly matters. I'm not here to see you."

"Then get the hell out of my flat," Mary states, her temper on the verge of exploding.

"Not until I've spoken with Charles," the woman insists, taking a seat on the large chair next to the sofa and setting down her clutch.

"You have no right to be here," Mary argues, hobbling back to the table and clumsily and retrieving her phone. "If you won't leave, I'll have you escorted out." She searches her contacts for the correct number, feeling the desire to sit but unwilling to do so while this bitch is making herself at home on her furniture.

"Will you?" the intruder smirks with a dismissive shake of her head. "Well, then, if you must." She breathes out an exaggerated sigh before returning her gaze to Mary. "And you're wrong, you know. I have every right to be here, actually."

"And how do you figure that?" Mary questions, fighting back the urge to throw a crutch at the woman's curly head.

"Because I'm his wife, and I think I have a right to know who he's sleeping with these days," the woman bites back, clearly enjoying Mary's discomfort, flashing her teeth rudely in her direction. She then stands and moves fluidly towards Mary, extending a manicured hand in a gesture that is anything but friendly.

"Freda Blake," the woman half-hisses, half-purrs. "And you are?"


	13. Chapter 13

Shit. Just shit.

Mary's heart hammers in her ears as blood pulses against her temples in a repetitious tattoo. Freda—the infamous Freda is standing just in front of her, claiming wifely rights over the man who now shares her bed and kisses her senseless.

"Are you going to answer or just keep staring at me like a mindless idiot?" Freda's question knocks Mary out of her stupor with a thud, and she narrows her eyes into lasers, wishing she could split the other woman into.

"Are you planning on leaving as I've asked or to continue to invade my privacy like a bitch with an over-sized sense of entitlement?"

A smooth laugh sounding somewhat rehearsed plays back to her, its owner taking two steps in her direction without one iota of remorse.

"My sense of entitlement fits me perfectly," Freda returns, looking Mary over as if she is a date up for auction. "As your overly-zealous defensiveness does you." The urge to smack Charles's ex-wife is nearly overpowering, making Mary's limbs quiver with an uncomfortable itch to actually do the woman physical harm.

"That's it," Mary snaps back, hobbling forward until she towers over her unwanted guest, keeping her insides together as best she can. "Get out."

She expects more of a reaction, a flinch, a gasp, but there is nothing staring back at her other than minor amusement.

"Not until I've seen my husband," Freda hums, turning her back on Mary and sauntering over to her sofa. "Do you have him locked in the bedroom, tied to the bedpost, perhaps?"

"It's none of your business if I have him in a collar and on a leash," Mary bites back. "And he's your ex-husband, which takes away any supposed right you have to barge into his life and my flat."

"Nearly ex-husband," Freda purrs, taking a seat and inciting Mary's ire even further. "Or did he neglect to tell you that our divorce is not yet final?" Her pulse speeds uncomfortably, her palms becoming a sweaty mess.

"You're engaged to another man," Mary retorts, keeping her voice steadier than she feels. "That's final enough for me."

"A minor technicality," Freda sighs, waving at Mary dismissively. "Which is why I'm here and why I need to see Charles. We've made a few changes to our last settlement agreement, changes he'll want to see before everything becomes finalized next week."

Next week. Shit, why hadn't she realized his divorce was not yet final? Has he mentioned this before, or has he kept it from her deliberately for reasons she can't fathom? Or had she simply assumed it was final because she wished it to be so?

"Who's we?" Mary questions as she made her way closer to her couch, her emotions as unsteady as her legs.

"Elliot and I," Freda smiled, the gesture reminding Mary uncannily of a bad-tempered barracuda. "They simply reflect Charles's recent change of circumstances, you see. He's not all that forthright when it comes to owning up to his current earnings." Her skin feels oddly hot, as if her blood is overheating at the pace of a frightened hare.

"You're trying to take more of his money?" The question bursts from her mouth before she can stop it, and she ignores the growing ache in her knee, determined to remain standing as long as Freda remains in her flat.

"That's the nature of divorce, my dear," Freda muses. "What makes it interesting rather than a series of dull negotiations designed to end what should never have existed in the first place." She pauses, her eyes raking Mary up and down, making her feel as if someone has just brushed her fur in the wrong direction. "Learn that lesson now and it will do you a world of good."

"Learn that lesson and I'll no longer be fit to be human."

Something dangerous flashes back at her from dark, hooded eyes, something venomous and bitter coiling up tighter bit by bit.

"Be careful what you say," Freda warns, a shade of menace filling the room. "I don't care for sermons—I never have. And you never know what you're capable of until it comes right down to it."

"That's a cop-out if I've ever heard one," Mary retorts, shifting her weight in an attempt to quell the dull throb encircling her knee.

"Just the truth," Freda states. "The cold, hard truth that no one wants to admit. No matter how noble people pretend to be, the bare bones of humanity burn down to nothing more than money, position and sex. It's always been that way, and it always will be."

"A sentiment fit for a Christmas card," Mary muses, unwilling to break the other woman's stare.

"Ah, Christmas," Freda grins. "If ever a holiday proved my point."

"I'd like you to leave," Mary interjects, indicating the door. "Immediately." Freda stares back at her, licking her lips in a manner that makes her feel as if she needs another shower.

"My, my," the other woman oozes. "He's gotten to you, hasn't he?" The question hits her soundly, right where he does get to her, squarely in the middle of her chest.

"I refuse to discuss my relationship with Charles with you," Mary returns evenly, her palms clenching and unclenching upon the pads of her crutches. Her response makes the other woman laugh, a brittle, throaty sound that somehow fits Cinderella's stepmother on a bad day.

"So there is a relationship," Freda states, arching her brows. "He's done a good job of keeping you hidden, I must say, but intelligence is not something Charles has ever lacked. Not that he was lacking in bed, either." A roaring sound invades her ears, her face overheating uncomfortably. "God, the things that man can do with his tongue," Freda continues, standing with an assumed air of authority. "I always thought he was rather gifted in that area, not to mention enthusiastic." The pounding in her knee is now shooting up her thighs. "Of course, you know that, don't you?" Freda asks pointedly, stepping into Mary's personal space. "Just how long has he been warming your sheets?"

"Get out of my flat," Mary instructs though clenched teeth and jaw, her need to sit down rocking her body uncomfortably.

"Obviously long enough that he's wormed his way in," Freda pushes uncomfortably, the left side of her upper lip twitching ever so slightly. "He does that, you know. Looks at you with those soulful, brown eyes, spins some pretty words around you until your skin tingles, fucks you out of your mind, and then—poof! It's over. He's won you over and makes you do something idiotic like agreeing to marry him." Her stomach clenches in a complex knot as bile begins to push its way up her throat, her leg threatening to spasm out from under her.

"Leave now," Mary restates, a sheen of sweat pilling uncomfortably across her upper lip. "I'm done asking."

"But it doesn't last, you know," Freda continues, brushing away Mary's insistence as if it were of no more consequence than a pesky gnat. "The euphoria, the mind-altering sex, the belief that everything you want is finally coming to you. No. In the end, he proves to be nothing but a big disappointment, just as all men regretfully do. My advice to you—find one with a thick cock and thicker wallet, and take all you can from him while you're able. That's the best we women can do where the opposite sex is concerned." She laughs again, a deep, grating sound that only heightens Mary's nausea. "Just don't count on Charles's wallet, dearie. That belongs to me. But by all means, do what you want with his cock."

"Now," Mary spits, her leg physically quaking as her vision begins to spot. The room is beginning to slant, her knee crying out for a relief she cannot afford to give it just yet. "Out."

"Baring your teeth now," Freda goads. "Impressive. I'm sure he enjoys those while you've got him bound and blindfolded." Narrowed eyes stare hard at her, and Mary has to restrain herself from spitting in the woman's face. "But just remember. No matter what you do to him in bed, no matter if he marries you and gets you pregnant half a dozen times, I had him first. And there's no way in hell he's ever going to forget it."

"What in God's name did he do to you to make you so bitter?" Mary manages, inhaling with every ounce of stubbornness she can muster. "See you for who you really are? Call you out on your selfish attempt to use him for your own gain? "

"Oh, hell," Freda retorts with a wave of her hand. "What is love if not finding someone who selfishly makes us happy because of what they can do for us? Love is about personal gain, and anyone who says otherwise is lying." She then pauses and leans in close enough for Mary to smell the unmistakable scent of Chanel. "And to answer your question, Charles Blake did two things I'll never forgive." Both women swallow, the air between them pulsing and humid. "He found a mistress," Freda hisses with a coy flick of her brow. "And he proved me wrong."

Her crutches fall to the floor, making Freda jump back to avoid being hit as Mary grasps the back of a chair for support. Her chest is tight, her lungs uncooperative, and she closes her eyes in an attempt to block out the past ten minutes of her life.

"What the hell is she doing here?"

She inhales her first full breath at the sound of Lucy's voice, feeling welcome arms steady her decisively before they retrieve her crutches.

"Well, well," Freda smiles, the sight of such sending a chill up Mary's spine. "The gang's all here, it would seem. Is Mummy dearest on her way up, too?"

"Is she bothering you, Mary?" Lucy asks, the concern in her voice cutting through the insistent ringing in her ears.

"Mary, is it?" Freda croons triumphantly. "How lovely. It suits you, somehow."

"Shut up," Lucy cuts in, leading Mary to her favorite chair and helping her sit as quickly as possible. "You're not welcome here, Freda. I suggest you leave now."

"So you're already chummy with the family," Freda muses, ignoring Lucy completely and speaking directly to Mary. "Be careful, Mary. They're a nasty lot who will try to get you to conform to their way of thinking and have you produce baby after baby." She then turns on Lucy, the glaring match between the two women almost frightening. "Oops. I shouldn't have said something like that in front you, Lucy. Forgive me." Mary gasps, turning in her chair as quickly as she can, regretting the move almost immediately as a pain stabs her just over her kneecap.

"I stopped forgiving you a long time ago," Lucy hums dangerously. "Around the same time I stopped caring about what you had to say."

"If you don't care, why are you so hostile?" Freda questions with shrug. "You Blakes are so full of contradictions and righteous indignation. It's amazing you accomplish anything in life with all of the time you spend finding faults in others."

"And you're so full of shit," Lucy tosses back. "So why don't you take what you've dropped and leave before I have Charles contact his attorney and he has you escorted out of here."

A charged silence takes over, the two adversaries staring each other down as Mary breathes in and out, collecting her composure as the pain in her knee begins to abate somewhat.

"I'm going," Freda announced breezily, her tone suggesting this course of action is all her idea. "Lovely meeting you, Mary. And remember what I said."

"How odd," Mary tosses in. "I seem to have forgotten already." Those black eyes size her up once again, overt hostility glaring back at her with no attempt at disguising it.

"Then you deserve what you get in the end," Freda remarks, twirling on her heels and making for the front door before she pauses and tosses a manila envelope on the table. "Oh, and here. Give this to your lover boy. Tell him that any shot of further negotiation on my part just flew out the window. Good-bye."

And with that, she is gone.

Lucy walks to the door, shutting it decisively, her hand resting on it as she exhales loud enough to summon Andromeda's attention.

"I hate her."

The words come as no surprise, and Mary pushes herself up in her seat, still too rattled for intelligent conversation.

"I can see why," she manages, shaking her head to rid herself of implications that could very well be nothing more than lies. Lucy moves to the sofa, depositing a paper bag on the table in front of her, shoving Freda's envelope mercilessly to the side.

"Are you alright?" Charles's sister asks quickly. "You look like you're in pain."

"I've been better," Mary admits, wincing as a sharp jolt flies up her leg. "But my knee is calming down bit by bit." Lucy purses her lips, staring at her with the unwavering look of a physician.

"Where's your medication?" she inquires, standing and dusting her palms over her black slacks.

"By my bed," Mary answers. "But I'll be fine."

"You need to eat, take your pain pill, and then rest," Lucy instructs her. "I'm not a doctor, but I'm married to one, remember?"

"I remember," Mary states with a sigh. "But the medication makes me sleepy, and I haven't been awake all that long."

"That doesn't matter," Lucy argues as she moves to the kitchen and pours Mary a glass of water. "Rest will do your knee a world of good, and there's no need for you to suffer through pain unnecessarily." She returns to the sofa, handing Mary the water before sitting down herself. "Trust me on this, alright?"

"Alright," Mary concedes, taking a drink, wishing her mind would stop spinning in one hundred different directions at once.

"Don't let her get to you," Lucy insists, opening the bag and retrieving two boxed salads. "That woman is a master manipulator who likes to twist everything and everyone to her advantage."

"She's a piece of work, alright," Mary agrees, setting her water down in front of her. "How in God's name did Charles end up with her?"

"I wish I knew," Lucy murmured, pulling out some artisan bread to accompany their salads. "That's the question the entire family has been asking ever since he married her. Here." Lucy hands her a napkin and plastic utensils, waiting for Mary to get situated before setting lunch in her hands. "I hope this is alright," Lucy interjects. "Alonzo's is one of my favorite places for lunch."

"It's perfect," Mary insists, unwilling to inform Lucy that her stomach is still in shambles from her earlier confrontation with Freda. _Mistress_. The word burns in her brain, the amount of venom in Freda's tone enough to make Mary wonder if there is any validity to her accusation. Had Charles been unfaithful to his wife? God, could she blame him if he had been now that she has met the woman for herself? But he has never mentioned another woman, not even in the early days of their odd relationship, and this eats at her, making her want to ask Lucy about it yet keep it to herself at the same time.

Does she really want to know, in all honesty? Would the answer change matters between them?

God, she isn't even sure how things stand between them now, much less what would happen if he confessed to having an affair. But if he is still technically married, are they technically on the verge of an affair at this very moment?

"What's wrong, Mary?" Lucy asks, her fork stopping half-way to her mouth. "What did she say to you?"

"Nothing," Mary lies with a tight smile. "She just insisted that she had every right to see Charles since their divorce isn't yet final and made herself at home without my permission."

"Their divorce isn't yet final because of her," Lucy states. "She's the one who has drawn everything out in her quest of trying to rob him of every pound he has earned since she left him. He has tried to speed the process along more than once, only to be stalled and frustrated at every turn." She exhales audibly, turning slightly in her seat. "Charles needs a new attorney, one who will fight harder for him and stand up to Elliot and Freda. Rob and I have told him this more than once, but he just wants it all to be over and to go away. Idiot."

A small laugh escapes her, her heart squeezing at the mere thought of the man in question. The man whose kisses consume her, whose touch sets her on fire, whose tenderness has instigated a meltdown she now fears to be irreversible. Her walls are down, her heart exposed, her happiness on the line yet again. Had she learned nothing from what happened with Matthew? They eat in relative silence for several minutes, Mary forcing down food in order to appease the woman sitting across from her.

"Do you think she ever loved him?" The question flies from her mouth before she can stop it, and Lucy sets down her lunch, wiping her mouth thoughtfully before answering.

"No," she replies. "I don't know that she's capable of actually loving someone other than herself, to be honest. I think she used him from the beginning, and he fell for her charm hook, line and sinker."

"Charm?" Mary quips, making Lucy chuckle. "Does the woman possess any?"

"She turns it on and off at will," Lucy explains. "I wouldn't have believed it had I not seen her in action. Freda is quite the actress, actually."

"Poor Charles," Mary muses, her pulse speeding ahead in a mad rush. "His marriage had to have been miserable."

"For everyone," Lucy admits, taking a drink of her water. "But for him, most of all. Charles is very loyal, you understand, almost annoyingly so at times. He tried for so long to find the good in Freda, to remind himself of why he married her in the first place, but she denied him that option at every turn. When he finally gave up, I think a part of him withered up and died."

Mary's brow cinches, her mind trying to work out what Lucy has just told her in relation to Freda's scathing allegations. And then there is the man she knows, or thinks she knows, the man practically living with her, the man who rocked her body to the edge of insanity and back last night. Shit.

"Until he met you, that is," Lucy adds with a small grin. "I've not seen him this happy in a long time, Mary. You've brought that part of him back to life, I think."

She swallows, her mind swirling in a dizzying rush that makes her feel horribly off-kilter.

"Don't give me too much credit," Mary rebuts, setting down her half-finished salad. "You have no idea how short a time we've been together."

"That doesn't really matter, does it?" Lucy asserts. "You've already shown him he can live and love again, that his life is still full of possibility and promise. You have no idea how much he needed that." Her thoughts fly to Matthew, her eyes fall to her lap.

"I think I do, actually," Mary reasons, hearing Lucy's hum of agreement beside her. "But that doesn't mean that we know where this is going."

"I know," Lucy mutters, taking another sip of water. "And I won't press you. That's for the two of you to decide." She smiles at this, her mind still in three different places at once, knowing Lucy will text Charles the moment she leaves to tell him of Freda's visit, wondering if Freda herself has already contacted him to twist the dagger in further she plunged into his heart months ago.

"What she said to you, Lucy," Mary begins. "About having children, I—"

"Don't worry about that," Lucy interrupts, raising her hand in front of her as if to ward of any lingering presence Freda may have left behind. "I've come to terms with my infertility. It hasn't been easy, but it is what it is, and I refuse to let that woman goad me into a reaction over something I cannot change." Mary nods silently, doubting she would have the same fortitude in the matter.

"Still, it was very personal and a low blow," Mary reasons.

"Freda specializes in low blows," Lucy tosses back with a flick of her brow. "In more ways than one." A puff of laughter escapes her, and Lucy joins in, the moment lightened somehow. "Let me get you that medicine," Lucy volunteers, standing and walking in the direction Mary indicates. She returns with a prescription bottle, handing it to Mary and watching as she drops one of the pills into her palm.

"Why do I suddenly feel twelve years old?" Mary quips, drawing a wry grin from the other woman who is eyeing her too closely.

"Sorry," Lucy returns, backing up a step. "It's the mother in me showing through." Mary flips her brow in response, popping the pill into her mouth and washing it down with a large gulp of water.

"Satisfied?" she questions. "Or would you like me to open wide and say Ahhh?"

"I trust you," Lucy chuckles, depositing what remains of their lunch to the rubbish bin and dusting off the table. "But I think it might be best if I leave so you can rest." A yawn hits her right then, making them both smile as if on cue.

"If you could just hand me my crutches, I can take it from here," Mary instructs, a part of her craving the solitude she also dreads like the plague.

"Why don't you let me help you get settled?" Lucy asks. "I'd feel much better if you did."

"Did you teach Charles how to use that pouty look to get your way, or did he teach you?" Mary questions pointedly.

"Well, I am his big sister," Lucy answers. "And the middle child. I had to do something." Mary grins and nods her consent, knowing it will be easier to accept Lucy's help rather than fighting a battle she doesn't have to face. To be honest, she welcomes it as it gives her one less thing to concern herself with in the here and now. There are hard questions looming, questions she will have to ask someone else later, someone she misses terribly yet now dreads facing like the plague. Someone she needs like air.

They make their way to her bedroom, Lucy ensuring the crutches are easily accessible as Mary sits on her bed and manages to remove her shoes.

"Where do you like your pillow?" Lucy questions, moving the item under Mary's knee exactly where she indicates. "Is that alright."

"It's lovely," Mary assures her, their eyes locking momentarily. "Thank you, Lucy. For everything."

"You don't need to thank me," Lucy returns, her brows creasing in concern. "Just rest, alright? And try to forget anything Freda had to say about you or about Charles. Trust me. Nothing that woman has to say is worth taking to heart." She nods wordlessly, wishing she could forget, that she could simply erase all ugly connotations that now glare behind her eyeballs like a screaming neon sign.

"You're right," she sighs, leaning back towards her headboard. "She just.." The words are there, a willing ear standing nearby to absorb them and give answers. But they stick in her throat, held back by her need to address them with the accused rather than with his sister. Shit. She'd surely rest better if she would simply let it out, but she can't. Not yet, anyway.

"She what?" Lucy inquires, stepping forward. "What is it, Mary?"

"Nothing, really," Mary lies, adjusting her expression accordingly. "She just took me by surprise. That's all." The other woman nods, seemingly unconvinced but unwilling to pry.

"She ambushes people," Lucy expounds. "Like the blitzkrieg."

"What a pleasant thought," Mary muses wryly, wishing she felt as unaffected as she is attempting to convey. "Perhaps I should board up my windows."

"And bar the door," Lucy adds with a rounding of her eyes, biting her lower lip in a gesture that reminds Mary of her brother all too clearly. They smile, a mutual acknowledgement that their luncheon is now over. Lucy takes her leave with a hand squeeze and a wave, carefully shutting the bedroom door behind her with a muted click. Then it is quiet. Too quiet for a London afternoon.

A sense of loneliness leeches into her bones, making her feel hollow and chilled, and she sinks into her mattress, squeezing her eyes shut against implications Freda must have thrown intentionally. Words meant to hurt hurled with a precision of a master hit their targets repeatedly, and she winces, trying repeatedly to drive them back, wishing she didn't feel so fragile and exposed. Freda's very motivation had most certainly been to riddle Mary's mind with doubts over a man who has come to mean far too much too soon. But why? For spite? For financial gain? To keep a tight rein on a man who is moving on with his life, even when she was the one who walked out on him? Damn the blasted woman. Why is Mary giving credit to anything Charles's ex-wife has to say, anyway?

Because Freda is his ex-wife…and Mary is terrified that what happiness is finally seeping into her life will be instantly drained away with a snap of manicured fingers and the pull of a plug.

What hasn't Charles told her about the state of his divorce, she asks herself yet again as she burrows into the covers? And do those missing pieces of his past possess the power to hold sway over their future? God, she's already assuming that they have a future together, an assumption that could fall around her as precariously as a stack of blocks. But he has spoken of children, of them being an us, of her being…being… What? The most beautiful woman he has ever known? How much weight does that carry in the scope of things? He hasn't told her that he loves her. Then again, she hasn't said those three little words to him, either.

And she does love him. God help her, she does.

Her head hurts, her limbs ache, and her knee decides at this moment to remind her that she pushed it too far in her determination not to back down from Freda. A tear hits her pillow, and she sniffs it back loudly, hitting the fluffy object as if it has insulted her by its mere presence.

"Charles." His name is a whisper, a plea, a cry from fresh bruise, and she hates herself at this moment for letting him in as far as she has. He is everywhere now, his presence seeped in her mind, his soul imprinted on her heart, his touch absorbed by her body in places very few have entered. "You bastard," she adds, wanting to kiss him, to smack him, to hold him on her bed until he tells her everything, wondering if he actually has and she's acting like an immature idiot over nothing. A groan escapes her, and she blinks in protest, wishing she could will herself into numbness. But numbness is impossible when the heart is on the line. "You fucking, idiot bastard," she mumbles one last time before hitting the pillow hard yet again, fisting her blanket in her fingers and crying herself slowly to sleep.

* * *

 

She feels him before she sees him, sensing his presence by the side of the bed, becoming slowly aware of the fact that he wants to wake her but cannot bring himself to do it. His feet shuffle, and she hears him sigh, forcing herself to keep her eyes closed and her breathing steady. She's not ready for this. Not yet. God, not yet. But then she hears him turn on his heels, knowing he is going to leave the room and let her rest until she wakes up on her own. The thought terrifies her, and she swallows down her misgivings, blinking open her eyes in time to catch his retreating form.

"You're back." He turns to look at her, his expression cracking something inside of her wide open, something that warms her from head to toe even as her stomach clenches in dread.

"And you're awake," he returns, stepping back to her bedside, sitting down gently on the edge. He reaches for her hand with a hesitation he hadn't shown but a few hours ago, and she realizes he is uncertain of just how she will react to his touch. She welcomes it without thinking, her body reacting before her mind can catch up.

"I'm still groggy, though," Mary admits with a yawn. He smiles at the timing, but the smile only travels half-way up his cheeks, his eyes too weighted with worry to respond.

"I'd like to be groggy right now," he utters, and she fights the urge to gather him in her arms and comfort him as she would her own child. "It would be much preferable to how I'm feeling at the moment."

She inhales slowly in an attempt to both steady and clear her mind.

"Your ex-wife certainly leaves a mark," she notes, forcing her voice through the lingering edges of sleep. She feels his shoulders slump forward, the expression of utter defeat on his face almost more than she can stomach.

"I'm so sorry, Mary," Charles breathes, holding her hand tighter now as he rubs her fingers restlessly with his own. "You shouldn't have had to meet her on your own like that."

"I survived to tell the tale," she quips, watching his brows crease further at her statement.

"I had no doubt that you would," he returns. "And I'm certain you left quite an impression on her, as well. But I should have been here, I should have been with you when she showed up like that. I should have intervened on your behalf."

"You couldn't have known she was going to turn up as she did," she assures him. "You're not psychic. At least, I don't think you are." He shakes his head at this, one side of his mouth lifting upwards.

"I just shouldn't have left you alone in the first place," he argues, his demeanor becoming serious again. "Your knee is still unsteady. I should have—"

"Stop it, Charles." He pauses mid-sentence, looking back at her with an expression that makes her think of a puppy who has chewed up his owner's slippers. "There's no use in going over what we should or should not have done," she continues. "It happened. I met her. And it's over." His face finally lightens, just a fraction, but it is enough. He leans forward a bit, still cognizant of an invisible border drawn somewhere between them, still uncertain of where they stand.

"I hope she wasn't too terrible to you," he states, his eyes informing her in no uncertain terms that he doubts this is the case. "God only knows what she had to say about me."

The opening stares at her blatantly, an unexpected entrance the size of the Rock of Gibraltar just waiting for her to step through. Her heart thuds uncomfortably as she stares at him, and she pushes herself up on her elbows, allowing him to quickly arrange her pillows behind her for support.

"She said you were still married."

No shock. No surprise. No guilt or fear. Just an absent nod as his fingers lace themselves more intricately with hers.

"Only until next week, supposedly," he breathes, rubbing his other hand across his scalp. "I cannot wait for this to be over, Mary. Well and truly over."

"I just hadn't realized, I mean…" Her voice trails off as understanding tries to take root.

"You thought our divorce was already final?" His inquiry is so unguarded, so open that she knows he has not knowingly misled her. At least when it comes to this matter.

"I assumed it was," Mary admits, and he then lifts her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles lightly, holding them to his lips seconds longer than necessary. She feels the contact reverberate across every rib, her chest expanding as unnatural constriction begins to give way.

"I'm sorry," Charles sighs. "God, I'm sorry. I should have made certain you were aware of the details. I should have been more clear." He stops and looks at her, daring one scoot in her direction. "I didn't deliberately mislead you, Mary," he insists, his eyes falling to his hands. "I hope you can believe that." She squeezes his hand in return and feels a shudder move through his arm. "I suppose I should have been more open about our proceedings," he continues. "But I hated to involve you in that ugly part of my life. You are so far removed from Freda, and my life here with you, well…" He stops, realizing what he has implied. "I just didn't want to taint anything," he whispers, the muscles on his face twitching in a pattern she has never before seen.

She pushes herself up to a fully seated position, and her arm stretches out to him, her hand touching his face, cupping his cheek, feeling a completion that takes her by surprise. He leans into her hand, and she traces the smooth surface, different than the stubbled terrain of this morning.

"Do our pasts taint us, then?' she inquires, and he shakes his head immediately, holding her palm to his face.

"No," he insists, looking back at her directly. "And it was stupid of me to keep what is happening with my divorce to myself. Forgive me?"

She sighs a smile on to her face, and he reaches out to trace its shape with his thumb, making her shiver even under the sheets. Her eyes close at the sensation, and she needs him now, in so many ways, in so many places. She pulls his face to hers, making contact with his lips, absorbing the feathered lightness of renewed intimacy, breathing in this man who has her completely unsettled in all the right and wrong ways. Noses touch, breaths intermingle, and fingers snake into hair, a massaging sensation on her scalp threatening to lull her into oblivion of a question she must ask. But ask she must.

He feels her stiffen and leans back just so, concern etching his features yet again.

"What is it?" he asks. "What is it you want to know?" She swallows down a thickness in her throat, failing to hold back a pool of moisture pressing against her eyes. Her hands begin to tremble, and he encases them in his own, the warmth of him a balm, the nearness of him almost too much. "Tell me," he insists, rubbing his nose against her own, nearly buckling her resolve. "Nothing is off-limits from you." She moves her hands to his chest, pushing him back just enough, licking her lips as eyes lock firmly upon each other.

"Where are we?" Her words are barely audible, breaking across her tongue, and she feels him exhale as he once again takes her hands within his own.

"That's the question, isn't it?" He gives her that half-smile of his before moving his gaze back to her fingers, his mouth pursing in concentration. "I'm not sure where we are, exactly," he begins. "But I know what I want." Her pulse hammers against her temples, her throat now the texture of sandpaper.

"And what is that?" she asks, unable to draw her gaze from eyes that have become nearly opaque. Her heart balances precariously on the edge of a cliff, praying he doesn't push her over as a sense of vertigo hits her hard.

"You," he answers, moving their hands until they hover over his heart. "I want you, Mary. All of you, all of this, all of what we can be, all of what we aren't just yet." A tear escapes her, and he wipes it away gently before she can tend to it herself. "I've fallen in love with you, you blasted woman," he admits, her chest exploding with something that makes her giggle in spite of herself. "Completely and idiotically in love with you."

She kisses him then, tentatively yet fully, feeling him water her soul as her arms wrap themselves around his neck. Tongues stroke and touch, then he engulfs her in his arms, moving close enough until bodies are flush and mouths fully connected, lips hungrily seeking as a new realm now lies shimmering before them.

"Say something," he manages, tracing her cheekbones with his thumb as she fists his shirt in her palm. "Don't leave me hanging on a limb like this."

"Idiot," she states, and he laughs softly, kissing her again as her hands work their way over his scalp. She cannot let go just yet, cannot bring herself to interrupt what is making her heart sing and soar, and she hugs him to her closer as her face moves to his neck and buries itself in the crook of his shoulder. He cups the back of her head, kissing her cheek, her temple, holding on to her as if she is a treasure he has sought for his entire life.

"I love you, too."

She whispers the words into his neck, across his skin, but he hear them, feels them, and embraces her all the tighter, binding her to him in as missing pieces of herself begin to fit themselves together. He fits her, she realizes, and the thought makes her tremble everywhere at once.

"This isn't a game anymore, is it?" she questions, and he draws back, shaking his head immediately.

"No," he affirms. "It's as real as that blasted cat of yours."

"Be careful," she warns, her voice no more than a warm whisper. "She's been known to eavesdrop."

"And who taught her that trick, I wonder?' he breathes, his half-smile making her grin, making her want, making her warm and liquefied all over. They hold each other as minutes tick by, kissing, reveling, absorbing what is new. She pulls back then, her heart stilling in her chest as an unanswered question pushes its way to the forefront of her mind.

"There's something else, isn't there?" he questions, and she nods immediately, hating to break the spell cast over her bed. "Did I do something wrong?" She smiles and shivers, and he looks at her hard, seeing something she cannot hide anymore, something they must address.

"No," she answers, biting her lower lip. "At least I hope not." His face flickers in confusion as his thumb traces her knuckles.

"Something Freda said, then?" he continues, and her face begins to pulse uncomfortably. "What is it, Mary?" he whispers, calling her to him with touch and promise. "What did she say?" She exhales pent up air from her lungs, sitting up taller, looking at him eye to eye. It has to be asked, has to be dealt with, and it should happen now, before she digs herself in any deeper.

"She said you had a mistress," Mary answers, the words rattling in her rib cage as they leave her body. "Did you, Charles?" she questions, a knot forming in her throat as he stares back at her. "Was there another woman?"


	14. Chapter 14

"Christ," Charles mutters, shaking his head, his stomach dropping to his knees in five seconds flat. "She told you I had a mistress?"

Mary is silent, but she nods, her fingers twitching, her lips tight.

"Freda was going for the kill, wasn't she?" he continues, trying to make things lighter, failing miserably in the process. Shit. This conversation is off to an even worse start than he imagined.

Her face twitches as she tries to smile, and he sees how nervous she is, how she wants to believe in him—needs to believe in him, and he squeezes her hand, holding on to this woman for dear life, this woman he loves with everything he has and then some.

"If there was another woman, I'm sure you had a reason," Mary begins, her gaze falling to their joined hands, but he slips one out of her grasp, tugging her chin upward until their eyes are fixed upon each other.

"There was no other woman, Mary," he assures her, praying she senses the truth of his statement. "I give you my word."

He feels her relax into him, her eyes processing his assurance as her brows unfurl and a small smile tugs on her lips.

"I believe you," she breathes, and he takes a full breath, his lungs expanding greedily, his heart speeding at the fresh intake of oxygen. He then holds her to his chest, wishing he could pull her into his very skin, thanking God, the universe and anyone else who happens to be listening that she is here with him now. She loves him. And she believes him.

His bones feel like jelly.

His lips then brush her cheekbone, marveling at its softness, craving further contact, and her fingers cup the side of his face, forging a new connection between them both organic and fragile. He feels a sense of completion somehow, one he has never known until this moment, one that rocks his bones and warms nerves still frayed to the breaking point.

"I knew it," she whispers, and she's shaking, he realizes, or is that him? It doesn't matter anymore, for they are clinging to each other, breathing the other one in, touching skin, holding on, refusing to let go of what they've just discovered. "I knew she had to be lying, but I…"

She cuts herself off, her face paling in an uncomfortable manner.

"But you wondered," he finishes for her, continuing to stroke her cheek with his thumb. She sighs, her head hanging, her eyes now shut.

"Yes," she admits. "I did, and I'm sorry."

"Shhh," he silences her, dotting a kiss to her lips once, twice, touching his nose to hers, noting just how cold hers has become. "It's understandable, Mary. God, we've known each other a matter of weeks, and there's so much we still have to learn."

She nods, and he shudders, loving how close they have finally become, hating his nearly ex-wife has managed to erect barriers when walls were just coming down.

"Why would she say something like that?" Mary questions, drawing back just enough to look at him fully. Her eyes are still moist, and she looks young, exposed and extremely vulnerable. God, he hates that his past has brought about that expression, and he bites back curses he'd like to hurl at Freda, lashing himself with them instead.

"Because she believes it," Charles shrugs, his brows creasing. "She accused me of having another love many times during the end of our marriage."

"Why?" Mary questions again. "Because she was unfaithful, she assumed you were, too?"

"Because Freda is an insanely insecure and selfish woman."

He sighs, raking his fingers over his scalp, searching his addled mind for just the right words. His body tenses again, and her hand moves down his arm, her touch steadying him in the midst of this unforeseen hurricane.

"She felt threatened," he continues. "The moment I did something she didn't expect, or made a choice she didn't like. Freda is a woman of demands and ultimatums rather than discussion and compromise, although at first she disguises this fact under an unreasonable amount of charm."

She makes a noise in her throat, one he cannot quite decipher.

"Lucy said that," Mary states. "That she can be charming when she chooses to be."

"You wouldn't believe it, I'm sure, after what you've just experienced," Charles adds with a shake of his head. "But it's the truth. When I met her, she was like an entirely different person."

He feels the bed shift beneath them and sees her face wince in pain.

"God, your knee," he cuts in, helping her adjust and fluffing her support pillow, watching her carefully as her expression relaxes bit by bit. She breathes in and out, letting him massage the back of her neck as muscles unwind. "Do you need anything?"

She shakes her head, but he hands her the water glass left for her by Lucy all the same, shrugging feigned innocence as she narrows her eyes. She obligingly takes one drink followed by another and sets the glass back on the bedside table, licking her lips and staring him down.

It's time, he understands, time for full disclosure between them, time to lay all of his cards on the table, and his heart jumps into his throat before plummeting straight down at least eleven stories. He can't lose her, not now, not when they've just shared so much, not when they're on the cusp of what he knows he needs like air. She then taps the spot beside her on the bed, and he smiles, he can't help it, loving her more in this small moment than he realized was possible.

She loves him. She needs to understand him. And he owes her the truth of his past.

He walks around to his side of the bed, kicking off his shoes before propping up a couple of pillows against the headboard and crawling in to sit beside her. She has partially warmed the sheets already, and he wants to absorb this small essence of her as he settles in and catches his breath, readying himself for an extended journey to a past he would rather forget. She takes his hand then, her thumb moving over his knuckles, making him bite his lower lip to keep himself from becoming overly-emotional.

"Tell me," she breathes, her head tilting to check his expression. "How you met, why you married, why you divorced."

"Oh, is that all?" he queries in mock-defense, and she tosses him that look he'd like to bottle, one that looks like she's torn between sending him to his room without supper or serving him up on a platter. "Anything else you'd like to know?"

"Smart ass," she fires back under her breath, her acerbic tone tickling his dimples and ribs, making him want her all the more.

"Shall I pour us a drink first?" he quips, and she eyes him steadily, her pupils thinning into narrow slits. "I think I may need one by the looks of things."

"You'll need a bottle if you keep putting me off," she retorts, unleashing a knot somewhere under his rib cage as a puff of air eases out of his lungs. He kisses her nose then, hearing a low growl emitted as a warning in his direction, and he leans back slowly, licking lips that feel nearly as cracked as a dried up sea bed.

"It's not a pretty tale, Mary," he states, his toes suddenly cold, his tongue awkward and thick. "It's rather ugly, I'm afraid, and I'm not certain how I'll appear to you once it's all out in the open."

"I've seen you naked," she returns, nearly making him choke on his own saliva. "I think that qualifies me to handle anything."

"Flatterer," he remarks, throwing his own brow her way. "And I thought you appreciated my ogrely wares."

She tosses him a small, sideways smile, and the fight suddenly goes out of him, all reserves of wit and bluff falling away as her free hand moves to push a lock of hair off his brow.

"They're growing on me," she whispers, her own vulnerability showing again, and he feels small and insignificant, like a gnome attempting to woo a princess with a badly written script. "Was it that bad?" she presses, her tone now concerned, and he squeezes her hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss into her skin he hopes she feels as deeply as he.

"Yes," he confirms. "I'm ashamed to say that it was."

The muted sounds of traffic punctuate the silence, and she waits for him quietly, glancing his direction, holding his hand, but giving him room to collect his scattered thoughts.

"I met Freda in New York," he begins, seeing her as she had been then—vibrant, almost girlish, or so he had thought at the time. "We both worked for McMahon and Stephens Publishing, I as an editor, she as a marketing assistant."

"Do editors rub elbows with marketing assistants all that often?" she breaks in, shifting slightly.

"No," he answers. "We rarely saw each other at work, actually, until one day we ended up sharing a lift." He sighs, pressing his lips together at the memory. "She was wearing green, I remember, and she commented on my suit—how well she liked it, how well I looked in it. We then realized we were fellow Brits and struck up a conversation, one we continued over lunch the next day."

"So you liked her?" Mary inquires, her brow quirked at an angle that was almost comical. "Or at least the fact that she flattered you."

"I wouldn't have taken her to lunch, otherwise," he grins, earning himself a smile and a hand squeeze in return. "I do have my standards, you know, although my judgment at the time was seriously lacking."

"It had been bowled over by a push-up bra and a green dress, I take it," she muses, and he wrinkles his nose at her before puffing a breath out his cheeks.

"Probably," he returns. "I did notice her breasts, unfortunately."

"Men," she sighs, and he leans into her shoulder. "You're so damned predictable."

"Sad, but true," he agrees, reaching over to stroke her nipple, making her squeak and smack his hand. "See? We can't help ourselves, I'm afraid."

"Idiot," she bites back, and he chuckles under his breath, hearing a hum of laughter resonate from her, as well.

"I was homesick, I remember," he resumes, and her hand presses into his palm, her attention all his yet again. "I missed my family, I wasn't satisfied with my job, I was debating over whether or not I should change careers. And then she was there, somehow, and she was cute and sexy." He looks at the woman now beside him, shaking his head at himself. "God, she wanted to know everything about me, and I was foolish enough to tell her."

"She used it against you?" Mary questions, her shoulder nudging his.

"Eventually," he admits, inhaling deeply. "With a gleam in her eye and my wallet in her purse." He stops then, knowing he sounds bitter, not wanting to come across as a spurned ex-husband out to belittle his former wife. "We wanted very different things, you understand," he amends, his thumb tracing patterns over hers. "Something that didn't come to light until after we'd been married a few weeks."

"But how did you decide to get married in the first place?" Mary asks, angling her body towards him as best she can. "What prompted you to propose to that woman?"

He makes some sort of noise in his throat, and he turns his body in her direction, wishing he could just shove this entire segment of his history into a locked box and toss it as far as it will go into the Atlantic Ocean, weighted down by chains and anchors for good measure.

"I'm not sure," he confesses. "I really wish I knew."

"Bullshit," she retorts, taking him off-guard, making him laugh out of the blue even as the wind is knocked out of his sails. "I mean it, Charles," she contends, punching his arm. "Stop avoiding the question."

"Ouch!" he exclaims. "What was that?" He rubs where she made contact, wanting to kiss the hell out of her, even if her eyes are shooting daggers at him at the moment.

"What you deserved," she replies, her nostrils flaring in time with her eyes. "Now tell me, damn it. Why in God's name did you marry Freda?"

"Christ, you're demanding," he sighs, moving just out of her reach before she can hit him again, chuckling in spite of himself.

"And you love me for it," she interjects as she leans back in to her pillows, brokering no room for an argument. "So get on with it, Lord Ogre. I'm not going to sit here forever."

He's still grinning, he realizes, and it changes things somehow, the bitter taste on his tongue surprisingly absent.

"As my lady wishes," he hums, just the thought that she actually is his lady, at least for the moment, making him feel as giddy as teenager. "And I wish I could give you a clear concise answer, Mary, I really do. But I can't. I'm not sure why exactly we decided to get married when it became painfully obvious within a few months that it was one of the worst decisions either of us had ever made."

He pauses, shifting his body until he was facing her fully.

"I asked myself the same bloody question over and over again," he continues, scratching his scalp. "And the best I can come up with was that I was lonely and desperate to have something steady in my life, or something I believed to be steady at the time. She was there, she was beautiful, and she made me believe that she loved me, really loved me."

He stops, wondering why he feels like he has just run a marathon in bad shoes, his breath somewhat labored, his palms sticky and warm.

"And you loved her?"

His pulse speeds ahead of him, and he shakes his head, wishing he knew, feeling like a blasted idiot for being so inadvertently evasive.

"I thought I did," he blurts, despising the uncertainty of his tone. "I mean, I loved the person I thought that she was. But I missed so damned much, things I should have seen, warning signals I'm sure I purposely overlooked because I wanted what I thought was real."

"We do that, don't we?" she contemplates, and he gazes at her profile, wondering what exactly is playing through her mind. "When we want the idea of something so badly we're willing to fabricate whatever it takes to convince ourselves its reality."

"Matthew?" he questions, and she nods, biting her lower lip self-consciously.

"That's how it was at the end," she voices. "More trying to fit pieces together that just wouldn't fit than anything else, even though it had been glorious once upon a time."

He exhales loudly, engulfing her hand in his own.

"That's how it was for my marriage," he states, staring out the window before returning his gaze to her. "At least on my part, although glorious might be pushing things just a bit."

She leans on his shoulder, and he cups the side of her face, kissing her forehead as they sit again in silence, digesting what has already been spoken.

"It was after a party," he continues, toying with a lock of her hair. "The corporate Christmas Party, actually. We were both drunk, well, at least I was. I'm not certain if she was, too, or was setting me up for the kill."

"She wanted you to propose, you mean?" Mary questions, and he nods in response.

"I'd just been offered a promotion," he clarifies. "A big promotion as Chief Editor for the London Office. I was already doing well financially, but a job like that would have nearly doubled my earnings. Freda was elated for me, or so she said at the time, and she started telling me just how badly she wanted to move back to England."

"All those pounds made her dizzy," she murmurs, and a puff of air flying out his nose.

"She may have swooned," he expounds. "And I, like a moronic love-struck co-ed believed every word she said to me."

"How effective was her sob story?" Mary asks, and a wry laugh escapes him.

"The stuff Oscars are made of," he muses, adoring the smile he receives in return. "She missed her mum, her father was ill, her sister needed her help with her nieces and nephews since her husband walked out on her two weeks ago. It was really quite tragic."

"I thought Freda hated children," she notes, leaning forward just a bit.

"She does," Charles confirms. "And she and her sister despise each other. Did I mention that her father is healthier than I am, and that she and her mother rarely speak?"

"God," Mary utters, shaking her head. "She did do a number on you."

"I think she did an entire number line, to be honest," he admits. Then her lips brush his cheek, and he nearly crumbles, the difference in what he has now and what he thought he had then so stark it is like comparing a Rembrandt to a three year old's chalk drawing. "I told you, Mary, I was an idiot."

"But you did believe her," Mary contests. "I mean, you were honest with her about your family, so why should you suspect deceit on her part?"

"Because I was warned, and I chose not to listen."

The admission burns his larynx, his stomach rolling uncomfortably.

"By whom?" she questions, sitting up as tall as possible.

"By her former lover," Charles murmurs, racking his fingers through his hair yet again, knowing it had to resemble a degenerate hedgehog's quills by now. "A co-worker of mine."

"Shit," Mary breathes.

"Pretty much," he agrees. "Clint told me she was an opportunist who saw my potential and thought I could be her ticket to bigger and better things. He warned me that she laid it on thick at first, only to strike back with venom once you crossed her."

"He learned from experience, I take it," she interjects.

"Firsthand," he confirms. "And I blew him off."

"You thought he was bitter," she theorizes, and he nods, feeling more and more like the idiot she accused him of being earlier.

"She gave me a sob story about how he had been unfaithful and had broken her heart," Charles confesses. "And I believed every word and tear. It turns out he was smarter than I was and figured her out after a couple of months. He ended things, she didn't like it, and…"

He pauses, he cheeks feeling hotter by the moment.

"And what?" Mary asks, her eyes narrowing in confusion.

"And then I entered the picture," he sighs, biting the side of his cheek. "Three weeks later, mind you, and I fell for her act, hook, line and sinker."

She sighs into him, her fingers squeezing his.

"You can't blame yourself for that," she reasons. "At least not too badly."

Her brow is en pointe, her expression nearly impassive.

"I thought you were on my side," he huffs, doing his best to appear mortally wounded.

"I am," she states with cool precision. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to coddle you unnecessarily."

"Gods, woman," he guffaws, his head falling back to the headboard. "It's a good thing I don't bruise easily."

She studies him then, watching him with a precision that makes him shiver.

"I think you bruise easier than you realize," she surmises, her own gaze faltering as she clears her throat. "Or at least will admit to. I think we both do, actually."

His fingers move into her hair, rubbing her scalp, holding her close, an ache for her welling up until it nearly takes his breath.

"Don't tell anyone, alright?" he whispers, watching as her eyes close then refasten on his as she nods her agreement. Then her hand is on his face, her lips hovering close, her nose brushing his until their breathing is woven into a shared tapestry.

"My lips are sealed," she assures him, skimming her thumb across his mouth.

"Well, don't seal them too tightly," he teases, unable to stop himself from kissing her, from nudging her lips open, from drinking of her mouth until he feels half-intoxicated, wanting to drown in her kisses and be swept away by all that she is. She makes a low humming sound as she kisses him back, angling her head to grant them both better access. He could lose himself in her mouth, in her mind, in her body and soul and that damned sharp wit of hers. She draws back slowly, and he kisses the tip of her nose.

"You're not stalling again, are you?" she quips, her tone low and drugged, and he chuckles as he reclaims her mouth, absorbing her own laughter on his tongue.

"I'll never tell," he hums, those blasted eyes of hers pinning him point blank to his spot.

"You're impossible," she breathes, inhaling with force.

"And you love me for it," he retorts, throwing her own words back at her as she attempts to bite back a smile.

"Go on," she commands, elbowing him lightly. "How did she get you to propose?"

"At the party, of course," he confesses. "After several shots and too many toasts. Then we ended up at my place, had sex I don't even remember, and the next morning we drank several pots of coffee, or I did, at least, while she began planning our elopement to Niagara Falls."

"Niagara Falls? Really?"

She's nearly gaping at him now, and he feels his cheeks heat on the spot.

"Oh, it's always been my private dream to get married at Niagara Falls, Charlie," he mimics, his voice cracking on the falsetto as she stares at him unblinking. "I've never told anyone that because I was sure that they'd laugh at me, but you won't, will you darling? I know you won't, you're ever so good to me."

"She called you Charlie?" Mary gasps. "And you still married her? You're more idiotic that I realized."

"At least she didn't call me Charles Wesley," he shoots back in defense. "God, I always knew I was in more trouble than a convicted felon when Mum resorted to using my middle name."

She grins at this, wriggling her brows in his direction.

"Charles Wesley," she voices, trying the name out on her tongue. "At least your mother has good taste."

"Touché," he acknowledges before tossing her a coy grin. "Although I am here with you, aren't I?"

"Watch it," she warns, and he smiles at her, absorbing her presence all over in a way that makes him feel like he can weather anything. "So you got married at Niagara Falls?" she continues. "Without your family? Just like that?"

"Pretty much," he sighs, feeling somewhat deflated. "With a view of the Falls for the ceremony and a honeymoon suite with a heart-shaped jacuzzi."

"What more could a girl want?" she goads, and he slides her look she consumes with a knife and fork.

"I'm just thankful she didn't ask for the Taj Mahal," he adds, only half-teasing. He then settles back into the pillows, looking at her with a shrug. "I was supposed to report to my new position in mid-January, so the timing worked out well. It's just…"

"Just what?" she asks, knowing he's holding something back from her. "Tell me, Charles Wesley, or I'm calling your mother."

"Hold your horses, Mary Jane," he insists, enjoying her sputtering at his deliberate misuse of her middle name. "What? It's much simpler than Josephine."

"Nowhere near as simplistic as your sense of humor," she fires back. "Go on."

He sighs, his eyebrows shrugging for him.

"I don't think either of us really thought it through," he confesses, staring at her wall. "I know I didn't, not the way I should have thought through the prospect of spending my life with someone."

"She was playing you," Mary cuts in, pushing herself up taller. "That much is obvious."

"True," he admits. "But I wasn't completely up front with her either. And it cost me dearly in the end." He sees her facial muscles working, watches as she attempts to work out what he will say next. "I let her believe that I was going to accept that promotion," he sighs, feeling a sting of guilt as he always does when he thinks of his deception. "I knew she wanted me to, and I loved making her happy."

"But you didn't?" she asks, her curiosity pulsing hot between them. "Why on earth not?"

He feels hot all over suddenly, a sheen of sweat breaking out across his upper lip.

"Because I wanted to write," he breathes, his voice cracking uncomfortably. God, he feels small, sharing this bit of himself so very personal, so vital and so essentially him. "I have since I can remember. And I knew if I didn't dedicate myself to pursuing that dream when I had the opportunity, I'd never give it a proper go and end up as nothing but a glorified editor of other people's work."

She's silent, gazing at him as if she's seeing something she's never seen before, and her eyes narrow as her fingers reach out haltingly to touch his face.

"A writer?" she echoes, studying him to see if the title fits. "You're a writer?"

"Guilty," he returns, one side of his mouth drawing half-way up his cheek, wondering just what the hell is running through that mind of hers.

"That's what you're doing on your laptop all the time?" she surmises, her lashes blinking in a frenzy. "Not editing, but writing? Why you can work from here without reporting to an office?" He nods, and she makes an appreciative noise, a smile breaking out across her face. "Why in God's name haven't you told me this before?"

She looks almost girlish in her eagerness to understand, and he feels like a bird freed from its gilded cage, trying out his wings properly for the first time.

"I don't know, actually," he blushes, his face burning in time with his ears. "I suppose I wanted to surprise you at some point, but that does seem rather foolish now."

"You have surprised me!" she exclaims, pushing herself up as tall as she can manage. "But it suits you, somehow." She pauses then, her finger tracing an invisible line in the air. "You didn't think Freda would support you, I take it?"

"I hoped she would," he sighs, twisting his rear to keep it from falling asleep. "But I wasn't certain. I'd saved up, you see, for years, putting money aside into a fund I could live off of so I could finally give writing full-time a shot."

"That takes some gumption," she states, her eyes sparking with what he hopes is admiration. "And it's hard. I did the same thing so I could go into business for myself."

"Precisely," he breathes, feeling lighter by the moment. "Did you face any opposition, though, from people who thought you were half out of your mind for taking that sort of a risk?"

He sees her lips tighten, and he senses her answer before it ever leaves her lips.

"Of course," she answers, her hands fidgeting. "Not everyone sees the benefits of risking so much on something that has no guarantees, especially if it involves leaving something relatively secure in the process."

He nods and she smiles, leaning her head towards his until they touch.

"Freda exploded when I told her what I wanted to do," he expounds. "When I told her I was going to turn down the promotion and try my hand at following my dream." He blows air out his cheeks, rubbing dry lips together. "It didn't matter that we had the money—she had a decent salary—McMahon and Stephens had seen fit to find her a job in the London office since we'd gotten married. And as I said, I'd saved up enough to live comfortably, even though we would have to mind our P's and Q's."

"She wanted more," Mary surmised softly, the texture of her voice rubbing against raw nerves like spun silk.

"Much more," he confirms. "She had ambitions for me I never knew about, and none of them involved me taking a chance on being a writer."

"So what happened? After you told her of your plans?"

"Besides exploding, you mean?" he quips with a heavy sigh. "She tried to talk me out of it, told me over and over that I was throwing away our lives and my full potential, that I was an idiot for not seeing how becoming Chief Editor could lead to even bigger and better things in the publishing world, and that most writers have shit for brains, anyway. That's why they require editors."

He sighs into the room, his chest tight and heavy.

"I really should have told her everything before we got married," he confesses. "That deception was my fault and mine alone. I'm certain she would have left me before our whole fiasco of a marriage ever took place had I just been completely honest with her, and with myself."

"Probably," Mary agrees. "But aren't couples supposed to see each other through life's changes? For better or for worse?"

"I think in mine and Freda's case it was for worse or for bloody hell," he grins, and she makes a noise of appreciation. "But I can't blame her for everything. She had a right to know what she was getting herself into with me, regardless of how she behaved afterwards. I failed her in that way."

"We all fail," Mary interjects, "On a regular basis. But we have to keep going, don't we?"

They sit in silence again, touching and thinking, connecting themselves together in a new fashion.

"I kept going from bar to bar," he finally confesses, and she chuckles deeply, the vibration from her chest tickling his arm.

"Which is where you found me," she muses with a sigh. "Setting such a good example of how to handle heartbreak while you throw your dignity to the dogs."

"I've never seen anyone throw it with such style," he quips, a lazy growl meeting his statement. "You truly have a gift, you know."

"Mama will be so proud," she muses, earning herself a kiss to her forehead. Her touch intensifies, and he is stunned at how easy it is just to be with her, even in the midst of laying out parts of his past that hurt to re-examine.

"I'm so glad I ventured into that bar that night," he states, caressing her knuckles repeatedly. "It was worth all of the shit that led up to it, you know, meeting you there, all drunk and adorable."

"Adorable my ass," she bites back, making him laugh yet again, the surprise of being so intimate with her like this one he revels in to his toes. "I don't even want to know what I smelled like."

"Only like half a distillery," he shrugs in an exaggerated manner. "Not an entire one."

"I'm so relieved," she quips, and they exhale together, fingers touching, lacing themselves together in a new pattern. His throat then begins to clog, and he tries to swallow down what feels stuck.

"I let Freda read my work, then. To try to convince her to believe in me." He stops, clearing his throat so forcefully it nearly it turned into a cough. She pats his back then rubs up and down his spine, waiting patiently for what hurts to voice.

"And?" 

"She told me I should grab the editor's position and be thankful for it." He feels her grip tighten in his hand as the one on his back fists in his shirt.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her eyes rounding exponentially.

"Don't be," he returns, reveling in her quiet acceptance of his most personal side. "I needed to know that it wasn't me that she loved, but rather what she thought I could give her. It took me a while to accept it, unfortunately, and I tried to make something out of what never existed while she found someone else without batting an eye. Once she told me about Elliot, I had no fight left in me. I let her go with a sigh of relief."

"And she had the nerve to stand here in my flat and accuse you of having a mistress," Mary states, the bite in her tone unmistakable. His lips twitch as he scratches his nose.

"My writing," he explains, watching as she processes his answer. "That's what she called my writing—my mistress, my one true love. She told me that's what destroyed our marriage, that my commitment to my own fantasy was greater than my commitment to her, that her affair with another man was simply the natural result of being a neglected wife."

"Bitch," Mary exclaims, and he laughs unexpectedly, barking until he's coughing again and she's thumping his back to the point of pain.

"Ow," he exclaims. "That's enough. Don't bruise a lung while you're at it."

"Just cough it up," she sighs, rubbing his spinal cord again. "You'll feel better."

"I just might at that," he grins, stopping to look at her, to study her, to wonder just how in God's name a woman like her is sitting here with the likes of him. "You don't mind, then, that I write for a living? It's not exactly the steadiest of jobs."

"Why would I mind?" she queries with a quick toss of her head. "It's what you love, it's what you want to do. Unless you're secretly selling government secrets under the guise of espionage fiction, that is."

"I'm not that clever, unfortunately," he muses. "And please don't agree with me on that."

"Hmm," she notes, something still off in her expression. "So she left you because you couldn't give her what she wants, but now she's trying to take you for everything you have? This makes no sense, Charles." He sighs and scratches his scalp, hearing her sharp intake of breath. "Unless," she begins, her mouth open as she points at him wordlessly. "You've done very well for yourself as a writer."

He shrugs unconvincingly, watching her as she stares him down.

"I've done alright," he admits, and she smacks his shoulder, making him wince yet again.

"For God's sake, what have you written?" she questions. "And why haven't you told me any of this before now?"

"It just didn't seem all that important," he replies, rubbing his upper arm. "And I'm a bit wary of women who enjoy bruising me on a regular basis."

"Not all that important?" she restates in disbelief. "This is your life, your livelihood. What, do you write porn or something like that, something you don't want me to know about?"

He's out and out laughing at this point, and she crosses her arms over her chest, her face scrunched in an exaggerated pout. It's unfair that she can look so damned adorable while doing a poor imitation of a discontented chipmunk.

"Nothing like that, I assure you," he chuckles before flickering his brows in her direction. "But perhaps you can inspire me to branch out into that arena."

"Don't get your hopes up," she instructs him. "Or anything else up for that matter." Her facial muscles relax then, and she shakes her head at him incredulously. "So what do you write if you're not crafting one-liners for men trying to get under women's skirts?"

"Just stories," he answers, raising his hands in mock self-defense. "You know. About life, love, the pursuit of happiness, men trying to get under women's skirts…"

She chuckles and nudges him playfully.

"Not that you would know anything about that," she muses, her tone low and languid. "So do you write under your own name, or do you use a false one?"

He eyeballs her, knowing the cat's about to be let out of the proverbial bag, wondering why he's so reluctant to just get it all out in the open.

"Both, to be honest," he tells her, swallowing hard. "I go by C.B. Wesley."

Her eyes widen exponentially as the shock of what he's just told her begins to sink in.

"You're one of last year's break-out authors," she exclaims, her mouth gaping open as her lashes blink repeatedly. She looks a bit like Lucy Ricardo, he thinks, and he nearly laughs in spite of himself, knowing she'll kill him five different ways and then some if he does. "You…you…why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm telling you now," he argues. "And to be honest, I enjoyed getting to know you just as me, and I wanted you to know me for who I really am. People sometimes respond differently when they're aware you've experienced a bit of success, and I, I..."

He pauses, searching for words that have deserted him at an inopportune time.

"I like just being me around you," he confesses. "How we bicker, how we kiss, how you pout and whine when you don't get your way…"

"I don't pout," she insists. "And don't think you'll be getting any special privileges around here, Mr. Wesley." She sighs, licking her lips in a way that makes him crave her mouth in places he shouldn't be entertaining at the moment. "Shit, she's trying to take your earnings, isn't she? That's what her visit today was all about. She thinks something big is happening for you, and she wants a sizable chunk of it, of the very thing she tried to talk you out of doing."

He nods, and her hand covers her forehead as a clear picture finally comes into focus.

"My new book," he offers, reclaiming her other hand completely. "The follow-up to 'Skimming the Abyss'. You see, a friend helped me self-publish my first novel, and it did surprisingly well. Now I have four different publishing companies clamoring for the rights to re-release it and publish the new novel, including my old haunt. I've never been so doggedly pursued in all my life."

She smiles, out and out smiles, and the effect is brilliant, sending sparks of light all over his spirit.

"Good for you," she states, her hand tightening in his. "God, that's wonderful, Charles." Her brow then creases as something strikes her. "Is she still with McMahon and Stephens?"

"God, no," he exclaims. "She didn't last long once she found a rich lawyer to see to her every need."

"Why am I not surprised?" she muses, and he can't help but agree. "But she should have no right to what you earn on this book. Your divorce will be final before it's published."

"Which is why she keeps dragging her feet, and why Elliot encourages her to do it," he explains, gratified by the low sound of outrage emitted from her lungs. "She wants to take away what she swore I could never do, her final fuck you to her dear ex-husband."

Mary leans forward then, connecting more dots in her mind.

"You proved her wrong," she mutters to herself, gazing at him as something clarifies. "Freda told me you did two things she could never forgive. You took a mistress, and you proved her wrong. This is it, isn't it? The fact that you have become a successful writer when she was adamant that you couldn't?"

"I would assume so," he agrees, still adjusting to the fact that the air is perfectly clear between them. "It sounds like something she would say."

"We won't let her, you know," Mary insists, leaning towards him with a gleam in her eye. "There's no way in hell that woman is going to take anything else away from you. We'll fight her on this, Charles, every step of the way, and we won't back down."

The side of his mouth twitches upwards repeatedly as his mind rushes to catch up with what she's said.

"We?" he questions, cupping the side of her face, feeling as if he's just been awarded a Pulitzer and an all-expenses paid trip to Bora-Bora. "We'll fight her?"

"Damn straight," Mary asserts with a flare of her nostrils that makes him tingle with anticipation. "Let's see how just how well Freda the Frolicker fares when she faces off with an Ice Queen and her Ogre."


	15. Chapter 15

_Where are you? I'm standing in the front of the book store, and I can't find you anywhere._

She keeps attempting to spot him from her place in the assembled crowd, wondering why he hadn't met her at the entrance rather than instructing her to come inside and wait. She is pleasantly surprised at the turn-out, not anticipating so many people would be in attendance, although the numbers shouldn't surprise her. C.B. Wesley is currently in demand. Her lips quiver at the thought.

_Move towards your right. There's something there that looks like a broom closet—that's where I'll meet you. I've been unavoidably detained, but I will be there momentarily._

Her eyes scan the room, and she spots what looks like said broom closet just past the edge of the crowd. She moves steadily towards it, one foot, other foot, her crutches effectively clearing a path for her as she glides across the space. At least the blasted contraptions have some redeeming value. They're more practical at scattering people out of her way than a horn. She knows Charles half-adores/half-detests these signings, and that he was horribly reluctant to leave her alone in the flat earlier, the memory of just who had shown up the last time he did so fresh in both of their minds. She pauses mid-stride, staring down at her phone, eyes narrowing at the mere thought of Freda. That woman had better not make her presence known today. God-she might just succumb to the urge to claw her eyes out if Freda Blake steps one pointed, manicured toe through the front door of this book signing.

_I found the broom closet, and I've parked myself across from it. I'm not going anywhere. This brace is still not the easiest piece of equipment to maneuver, you know._

She sighs, letting the back of her head touch the wall with a soft thud before her phone vibrates with his response.

_I'm certain. Thankfully, my equipment is much more versatile and responsive to movement._

A slow burn sparks in her lower belly, and she smiles to herself.

_Your cockiness is astonishing, you realize. Ever wonder if the world would be better off without your delusions of grandeur?_

She bites her lower lip, her eyes fixed on the screen.

_I'm just delighted you think my cock is astonishing._

Bastard.

_No sign of Freda from my vantage point, thank God. Has she ever shown up at one of these things?_

She pauses, looking around the large main room, wondering if Lucy has arrived yet.

_No. I think actually seeing my success would be the ultimate slap in the face for her. At least that's what I let myself believe._

_Perhaps,_ she texts in a flourish. _But maybe she's simply fallen over her stilettos and broken her leg._

Her brow arches on its own as she ponders the intensity with which she wishes this woman ill.

_I like your idea better._

Of course he does. It is then she spots Lucy—at least she thinks it's her—it's hard to tell from this angle amid the stagnant crowd. She moves to her right, tilting her head just so, brushing stray hair from her eyes as she wills the woman to turn her face in her direction. No. Not Lucy. She leans back into a corner to relieve some pressure on her leg. It's bothering her more today than yesterday, a slow and steady throb dully pounding the back of her kneecap with the insistence of a drunk woodpecker. It's not all that surprising when she considers some of the angles into which she attempted to maneuver it last night before Charles insisted she try her best to lie still. Something rather difficult to do when one's back is practically pushing itself off the bed.

Shit, she can't keep letting her mind wonder down this particular rabbit hole, not when she's attending a rather prestigious and public event meant to bolster Charles's writing career, not when she should be poised and cool by his side rather than hot and bothered under the collar.

Thoughts about sex will just have to wait. Well, at least simmer on the back burner for a while. She clears her throat and inhales as deeply as she can, hoping to turn down the heat in her cheeks a degree or two.

_There's quite the crowd forming to see you. I hope all of this adoration won't make you impossible tonight._

She rubs the back of her neck, watching as various patrons thumb through their copies of _Skimming the Abyss_. It's still odd for her to reconcile the fact that her Charles is one of the year's hottest new authors. Her Charles…Christ. When exactly had that become the way in which she thought of him? Because she does think of him that way—a fact which is less staggering than she expected it to be. It actually feels natural, somehow, like sliding one's hand into a broken-in leather glove or one's feet into the softest pair of socks on the planet. Is it possible for a relationship to be this easy? She nearly drops her phone when it vibrates in her hand.

_I'm never impossible. Just insatiable. I though you knew that by now._

She chuckles to herself, thinking of last night's make-out session, one that had nearly broken his resolve on waiting until her knee had healed before having out and out sex. She's not sure either of them will last that long, to be honest, brace or no brace.

_I can't argue with insatiable. But you're impossible far more often than you realize, Lord Ogre._

_How else am I supposed to keep up with an Ice Princess?_

_Touché_ , she thinks to herself. The wall is cool and sturdy against her back, and she lets her weight rest on it, wondering just why she feels so tired until she remembers how late they kept each other awake last night.

_It's all your fault, you know._

She grins at her own text, counting the seconds until his response dings on her phone.

_What have I done this time?_

She bites her lower lip.

_I'm sleepy. I blame you._

One. Two. Three…

_I happily claim full responsibility for your current predicament._

Cheeky bastard. She scans the crowd yet again, recognizing no one across the space of murmuring voices. She'd welcome Lucy's company right now—she's one of the few women whose company she has actually enjoys, and being cooped up her in flat far more so than usual is wearing on her little by little.

"Pardon me," an older gentleman interjects after nearly colliding with her.

"It's alright," she smiles, pressing herself as far into the wall as she can, feeling a surge of pride in her chest as he tucks his book under his arm and waves at someone across the room. She's been secretly reading his book on her Kindle, and damn—he's brilliant. This man who got her safely away from a drunk, drove her to his flat, let her sleep alone in his bed and then has practically moved in with her to help her care for her injured knee…this man is one hell of a writer. It's easy to hear his voice in her head as she digests each paragraph and thought, his prose at times caressing her insides as she loses herself in a world of his making. She tugs the Kindle out of her bag and picks up where she left off, allowing herself to drift into the story until she hears a voice that grabs her attention immediately. Her eyes fly up from the tablet, and she scans the room, looking for any sign of the woman she is certain she just heard.

"There you are."

His whisper over her shoulder makes her jump, and she whirls on him awkwardly.

"God, you're white as a ghost," Charles murmurs, tugging her into a door clearly labeled Staff Only. "What's the matter?"

"Isobel," she replies, shaking her head. "Matthew's mother. I thought I heard her voice." His expression freezes, his mind clearly mulling over her circumstances, and he takes her hands within his.

"Look at me, Mary," he whispers. "It's alright. Just breathe." She nods her head, fighting down memories of dinners at the woman's table, lunches at their favorite café, light touches to her shoulder or arm when things between her and Matthew began to fall apart piece by agonizing piece. No one ever warns you that breaking up with someone after years of being together is akin to losing a limb or a vital organ. There are routines and places that come with them one takes for granted, people connected to them who become important, who sneak in, who fill your heart in places you never knew were empty until they are suddenly snatched out of your life. Losing Matthew had been hard enough. Losing his mother had made the pill she'd had to swallow even more bitter.

But Isobel now had a new daughter-in-law, a different daughter-in-law, one with a much less difficult demeanor and softer, kinder edges, one who undoubtedly would happily give her several grandchildren who would be reared in perfectly home-spun nurseries and whose lives would be detailed in mind-boggling scrapbooks to boot.

"Did you see her anywhere?" His voice cuts through, his question registering clearly, and she shakes her head in response.

"No," she admits. "I didn't."

"Good," he smiles, tucking his arm into hers. "Now if you'll just come with me, I'll get you away from this crowd and into a nice, comfortable chair."

"Charles," she cuts in, unable to move. "I'm not ready to face her yet." She swallows, willing her voice to remain steady. "If she's here, that is." He stands quietly, rubbing her cheek, his eyes soft and without judgment. "I have no idea what she must think of me now," she continues, her eyes dropping towards her feet. "And we were close once." He kisses the top of her hands, gazing straight into her.

"You don't have to worry about what she thinks," he states rationally. "But you don't have to stay here, either. Not if you don't want to, Mary. I can arrange for a friend of mine to take you home if you prefer. I don't mind." She trembles as the temptation beckons her.

"No," she exhales, forcing a steadiness into her tone she does not feel. "This is important to you, and I don't want to let you down."

"None of that," he insists, turning her legs to liquid as he gently strokes her cheek. "You're under no obligation to face Matthew's mother this evening. I wouldn't ask that of you. Besides, I've done several of these book signings before. I can handle one more on my own." A warmth hits her hard squarely in the chest, and she sighs into him slightly, wanting more than anything to simply fall into his arms and be kissed into oblivion.

"I know," she returns, drawing the spicy scent of him into her lungs. "But I don't want you to do it alone. Which is why I refuse to leave." He stares back at her two seconds too long, his lips pursing together as his nose brushes hers.

"Do you know how remarkable you are?" he whispers, and she clings to his arms, feeling anything but remarkable.

"Of course," she lies, knowing she hasn't fooled him for a second. "And don't you forget it." He grins at her—that half-grin that makes him look a bit like a grown up Harry Potter in possession of The Marauder's Map.

"Alright," he gives in. "I suppose I'll let you stay." She eyeballs him directly, blinking as he unexpectedly kisses the tip of her nose. "But let me know if you change your mind."

"You know that I will," she grins, and he stares at her hard. "What?"

"Liar," he admonishes, hushing any rebuttal with a kiss that leaves her good knee shaky. His hands move up her back, her fingers weave into his hair, and she finds herself pressed against the wall, his tongue doing things to her right below her ear that make her wish they were both back at the flat.

"We can't stay here, you know," she whispers as his lips trail down her neck. "Someone could walk in at any moment, and then what would we do?"

"I'll claim I'm conducting research," he hums into her clavicle. "For the next novel. You did mention something about wanting me to branch into porn, I do believe." She whaps his shoulder, making him laugh and wince simultaneously. "You never miss, do you?" he chuckles, rubbing his shoulder blade with one hand.

"If anything that happens in our bed ends up in your book, you'll find that ass off yours banished to the sofa," she returns. "Andromeda will love the company."

Our bed. Her eyes round in time with his as they both realize what she just said.

"She'd eat me alive," he breathes, deliberately stepping around the elephant trying to nudge itself between them. "I wouldn't survive more than a few nights, and you know it." His tone is lower, the slight quiver of vulnerability in it slipping under her skin.

"Then I suggest you stay on my good side," she whispers, her heart now thudding uncomfortably in her temple.

"All your sides are good," he returns, stroking her hair. "I know. I've seen them." She's blushing, the heat under her skin leaving her in no doubt as her limbs puddle beneath her and her heart pounds in her ears.

"You've done more than see them," she manages as his nose touches down to hers.

"True," he whispers. "And there's so much more I'm aching to do to them, Love." She pulls his mouth to hers, drinking in all that he is, allowing herself to hope for the first time in what seems like years that happiness might be in the cards for her.

"If I'm a rumpled mess, I'm blaming you," she states, trying to adjust her blazer with one arm as her life spins dizzily around her.

"Can I get that in writing?" he quips, chuckling at the low growl she tosses in his direction. "I'll display it for the world to see." She gazes back at him, shaking her head as she draws herself up as tall as she can.

"You're an idiot," she hums as her finger lose themselves in his thick hair. "You know that, don't you?"

"Of course," he grins with a flick of his brows. "How can I forget with you by my side to remind me?" She smiles as he takes her hand, and they exit into an internal hallway with an elevator on the right wall. His flails his brows her at her, and she throws him a reluctant grin.

"Your chariot awaits, my queen," he states with a bow and a gesture to the doors that slide open with a soft ding.

"I hope you have a license," she observes as the lift begins to ascend. "Where exactly are you taking me?"

"To the signing area upstairs," he explains. "The display is set, water is on hand, and they'll be ready to open the flood gates in about fifteen minutes."

"Damn," she sighs dramatically with an over-done shrug. "I forgot my copy at home."

"Then I'll sign wherever you like," he purrs as he holds the door open with his hand, giving her an extra moment to maneuver in her brace. "I'm very accommodating, you know."

"So I've been told," she hums in return as he pushes the button. "Don't push me. I may put that claim to the test when we get home." Her throat goes dry as she watches his expression go from mischievous to serious in less than a second. "Did I say something wrong?" she questions, hoping she hasn't been a wet blanket on what should be a triumphant afternoon.

"No," he manages, his facial muscles working overtime. "You said something very nice, actually."

"About putting you to the test?" she queries with a brow arched in his direction.

"Well," he shrugs, stroking the side of her thumb. "That's always a nice thought. But, it was the other phrase I liked even better." He pauses, reaching forward to cup her cheek. "About the two of us going home."

"Ah," she breathes, her insides tingling enough for two people. The word is a mere breath, but the weight of it is staggering. "I did say that, didn't I?"

He smiles as his eyes fall to the floor, his hand rubbing the back of his neck until she fears it may look sunburned.

"Do you want to take it back?" His question freezes her limbs, somehow, and her mouth is suddenly too dry to answer.

"No," she whispers, feeling him tremble at her response. "Unless you want me to."

"No," he breathes, clutching her to his chest. "Please don't." He's kisses her, hot and open-mouthed, making her ache and sweat all at once. She's drowning in him, welcoming the sensation of soft waves lapping over her senses until she is completely immersed. His hand discreetly cups her rear, making her nipples harden and her thighs feel like Jell-O. Humping his leg in the elevator when he's supposed to begin signing copies of his best-seller probably isn't an option, unfortunately. 

It's then they hear the door slide open followed by someone clearing his throat, and she turns to see a rather short, bearded man rocking on his heels just in front of them.

"I take it this is Mary," the man states as Charles's arm winds around her middle. Her face is red-she's certain of it, and there's no telling what her hair looks like. She pushes a lock of it behind her ear, resisting the urge to tug on her blazer.

"None other," Charles returns smoothly, as if they haven't just been caught making out in a lift like a couple of teenagers. "Mary Crawley—Rex Thornton, my editor and friend. Thank God his eye for detail is far better than his timing."

"Nice to meet you," Rex smiles, taking Mary's hand and shaking it firmly. "And I have no control over the lifts, Charles. They open and close when they're supposed to do so." Rex pauses and stares at her openly, and she shifts as best she can, wondering just what the man is doing and why he's doing it so blatantly. She refuses to look away under his scrutiny, there's no way in hell she's backing down, but she clasps Charles's hand all the tighter, feeling him return the gesture immediately.

"Something wrong?" Charles cuts in, taking a step in Rex's direction. "Or did your mother simply fail to teach you that it's impolite to stare?" Rex jumps back, his face turning three shades of scarlet as he coughs self-consciously.

"I'm sorry," the man mutters, rubbing his scalp. "Truly—I meant no offense. It's just that she's lovely, Charles, truly lovely, and that should be a plus for you today. A beautiful woman on deck always attracts readers."

"Even a woman with a leg brace?" Mary questions, allowing Charles to maneuver her around a corner to a comfortable chair behind the signing table. His hand moves to her shoulder protectively, and she reaches for it, mindlessly rubbing his knuckles and fingers with her own.

"Ignites compassion," Rex insists, placing a glass of ice water on the table in front of her. "Gives you an air of humanity. Readers like that. Helps them relate to the author."

"I didn't bring her to serve as an ornament or conversation piece, Rex," Charles rebuts, both hands in front of him. "She's my girlfriend, my date. She's here because I want her here."

Her stomach does a triple somersault, something about the way he says girlfriend working her intestines into a frenzy. He's watching her for a reaction, his eyes bright, his vulnerability on full display, and she smiles up at him with a squeeze to his hand.

"I know," Rex stammers. "And I'm sorry if I've offended you. Truly." She waves him off, staring just past the man to a table almost out of her line of vision.

"As Charles's girlfriend, is it possible I could commandeer one of those croissants before we're inundated with fans?"

"Of course," Rex states, turning quickly on his heels and making his way to a small tray of pastries tucked back into a corner as if he's been sent on a mission by God himself.

"Nicely played," Charles hums into her ear before taking the seat beside her. "You've already got Rex and your beck and call. That's not an easy thing to do."

"I'm starving," she admits, making him grin like an idiot. "If I don't get something to eat, I may turn into a liability rather than an asset."

"Never," Charles murmurs, triggering a chill down her limbs. "And even if you do, at least you're a pretty liability."

"Flatterer," she hums, accepting the croissant with a nod of thanks to Rex. "If you tell me flattery will get me nowhere, let me remind you that I do know better," he asserts, taking a sip of his water and looking around the room. His expression suddenly turns serious, and she feels his grip tighten on her shoulder. "What do you think? Of all this, I mean?" He sounds so uncertain, and he's looking to her for approval, the approval Freda never gave him, the approval he craves from her. She stares back at him, wishing she could remove his uncertainty even as her own sneaks up on her.

"It's amazing," she assures him. "I'm impressed."

His Adam 's apple bobs up and down, his jaw clenching as he holds his emotions together.

"Thank you," he breathes with a squeeze to her hand. "I love you, you know." Her chest expands, her heart fluttering with the ferocity of a caged butterfly.

"I know," she grins, eliciting a chuckle that warms her like hot cocoa. He touches his forehead to hers, and she clutches his arm gently before hearing a noise that catches her attention.

"Oh, I think we're about to have company." Rex's arms are waving in their direction, and a blonde woman in her fifties makes her way towards them, a large brush and small cosmetic bag in hand. She quickly straightens Charles's hair, pats his cheeks, then takes three steps back before granting him a wink of approval.

"Helen," he explains, gesturing in the woman's direction. "Tries her best to make me presentable for these things."

"What a taxing job," Mary sighs, and she hears his low growl promising retribution once they're alone. "You might want to consider raising her salary." His eyes round as he inhales quickly.

"And you might want to brace yourself," he instructs, his focus honed on something just over her shoulder. "My mother is here."

Ice water slides through her veins, her toes going numb in an instant.

"I didn't know she was coming," Mary breathes, her eyes rounding on queue.

"Neither did I," Charles returns as he squeezes her arm. "I'm betting her unexpected arrival has everything to do with the fact that Lucy knew you were going to be here."

Her spine straightens automatically, and she grabs the glass of water, downing a swig before daring to turn around. Charles stands, edging out of her line of vision, moving towards a woman she's both excited and terrified to meet.

"Mum!" she hears him exclaim as she seeks the courage to face Jillian Blake. "What a surprise." She turns to see a rather short woman practically skipping towards him, the smile on her face nearly as wide as her outstretched arms.

"Don't act too shocked, Charles Wesley," Jillian reprimands softly. "You know who I'm here to meet. Now give me a hug and introduce me."

Mary pushes herself up from her seat, watching as mother and son embrace, pushing the edges of her mouth upwards as she wills her hands not to shake. His mother—God, his mother—here. Now. Today. It's certainly better than meeting Freda, but her legs are shaking as if Godzilla himself were stomping through the biography section. Charles faces her again, looking a bit like a repentant Labrador as he tosses her a muted apology and guides his mother in her direction.

"You're Mary, aren't you?" the older woman exclaims, breaking free from her son to enfold her in a warm embrace. She's far stronger than Mary had expected, and she feels her ribs contract slightly, complicating her attempt to hug the smaller woman in return. "I'm Jillian, Charles's mother," she fills in unnecessarily. "And aren't you the loveliest thing?" She's hugged again, a tenor chuckle accompanying the gesture from just over her shoulder. So help her, if he is enjoying this display at her expense…

"Remember her knee, Mum," Charles instructs, and Mary is released almost too abruptly, catching herself before she stumbles back into the table. Jillian quickly brushes the front of Mary's blazer, looking far more stricken than the situation warrants, making Mary fight down the urge to pat the shorter woman's head. "It's better, but it's far from being perfectly healed."

"Forgive me," Mrs. Blake implores. "I hope I haven't hurt you."

"No," Mary answers breathlessly, her mind two paces behind her mouth. "Not at all."

Charles smiles at her as Jillian steps back, keeping a hold on Mary's arms, looking her over with an expression that morphs from eagerness to out and out pride in three seconds flat.

"I must say," the older woman breathes. "You look even prettier when you're dressed and out of the bed, my dear."

A violent coughing fit hits Charles from out of nowhere, his nearly purple pallor distracting Mary from just how violently her cheeks are burning.

"Oh, dear," Jillian sighs. "That' didn't quite come out right, did it?" She whacks her son soundly on the back, pitching him forward three or four steps into a chair. "Stop causing such a commotion, Charles. You're going to ruin your hair, and your fans will be terribly let down." Charles raises up slowly, staring back at his mother with an expression so comical Mary wishes she could capture it on film.

"Sorry, Mum," he wheezes, grabbing Mary's water and finishing it in one gulp. "I'll try to choke more discreetly next time."

"I'm glad to hear it," Jillian rebuts, straightening her own hair before her gaze returns to Mary. "He was raised to be a gentlemen, my dear. I hope he's left you in no doubt of that." She quirks her brow at him precariously, his face retracting into a pale scarlet rather than bright maroon.

"He behaves," Mary hums as his arm snakes around her. "Most of the time."

"Two minutes," Rex interjects, nearly making Mary jump out of her shoes as he comes up behind her. "For God's sake man, what did you do to your hair?" Rex shakes his head and consults his clipboard, flipping pages for seemingly no reason at all. "Do try to keep it together, Charles," Rex sighs before motioning for the underpaid Helen to rework her magic. "There will be press here, you know."

"Yes, Charles," Mary echoes after Rex retreats. "Do try and keep it together." He clears his throat meaningfully, and she wiggles her brows at him, fighting back a smile as he purses his lips together.

"Says the woman who delights in unhinging me," he mutters under his breath, picking up her glass for another gulp of water, setting it down in frustration when he finds it to be empty.

"My favorite sport," Mary croons with a wink.

"I like her," Jillian whispers to her son, leaning into their private conversation and gesturing towards Mary. "I do hope you listen to her, Charles. She seems very sensible."

"You yelled at me when I blindly did whatever Freda told me to do and told me to think for myself," Charles returns, turning his frame so that Helen can repair the damage to his coiffure.

"Bite your tongue," Jillian retorts, smacking him on the shoulder with her freshly removed glove before crossing herself. "You know I never want to hear that bitch's name uttered in my presence again."

"I was an abused child," Charles interjects softly, avoiding his mother's narrowing eyes as Helen examines her repairs to his hair. "You do feel sorry for me, don't you Darling?"

"Quite the contrary, Dearest," Mary utters, her eyes flashing in his direction. "I'm glad to see that you have such a sensible mother."

"You see, Charles," Jillian cuts in. "She's brilliant. Don't do anything to fuck this up."

It's Mary who nearly chokes on her own spit this time.

"You see," Charles mutters in her ear. "She's a nosy little devil. Aren't you, Mum?"

"Only when I need to be," Jillian croons, fluffing her short, dark hair. "And he often needs it, I'm sorry to say."

"I believe you," Mary sighs, and the women nod their heads in tandem, instigating an eye roll the size of a Texas T-bone from the subject of their conversation. "I'm not certain how well he would have fared without your guidance in his life."

"Shit," he utters, his gaze narrowing just so. "I'm doomed for the rest of the afternoon, aren't I?"

"Perhaps the rest of your life, dear," Jillian whispers, loud enough for Mary to hear, making her eyes widen to at least double their normal circumference. Charles coughs louder than he did the first time, practically ratting the table.

"Christ," Rex mutters, pressing a glass of water into Charles's hand. "Are you ill? Do you need a throat lozenge?" Charles flails at him madly, shaking his head just before he tosses back another glass of water. "Perhaps you should visit the loo before we open the doors," Rex observes, the combination of his comment and Charles's expression prompting Mary and Jillian to snicker just loud enough to irritate him.

"Perhaps you should sod off," Charles manages between coughs. Rex raises his hands defensively, stepping back a few paces before moving towards the main doors.

"There's no need to yell at Rex," Jillian observes. "He's only doing his job."

"I don't need someone telling me when I need to relieve myself," Charles retorts, running his fingers over his scalp, undoing the work Helen has already done twice. Mary steps up, nudging an unruly lock back amongst the others, crinkling her nose in a manner that makes him smile.

"No," Mary hums. "You just need someone to continually comb your hair for you." He gives her a look of warning, one she absorbs with a grin.

"Here we go," Rex states with a clap of his hands. Her stomach falls to her feet somehow, and she wonders why she's so bloody nervous when it's his book signing, not her own.

"Kiss me," he instructs, and she stares back at him slightly puzzled. "Now." His mouth is on hers before she can react, and her hands slide up to his face, guiding by sheer instinct and the continual urge to touch him. "That was for luck," he breathes as he draws back a breath too soon.

"You'll do splendidly," she assures him, and he gives her that grin she so adores, the one that's part boy, part Carey Grant. They take their seats as the first patrons make their way to the table, pens and cameras on hand. He's amazing with his fans, so at ease, so smooth yet approachable, and she wonders yet again what would possess Freda to effectively try to squash his ambitions and keep him on a leash? Minutes slide by, and her body eases into a comfortable tempo as the afternoon glides past them.

"I love seeing him like this," Jillian whispers, handing Mary a newly filled glass of water. "Doing what he loves with someone he loves by his side." Her heart picks up its tempo, skipping a step or two as the two of them lock eyes. "You'll be good to him, won't you?"

Her throat tightens inexplicably, so she nods instead, wondering if her mouth is hanging open or if she'd had the presence of mind to close it. Jillian covers Mary's hands with her own, smiling broadly as the older woman's muscles seem to relax one by one.

"I thought you would," Jillian continues with a squeeze to her hand. "Lucy is already so keen on you, and she told me how happy you make Charles, how much livelier he is since he met you. I can see it, you know. A mother always can."

"See what?" The words are out of her mouth before she can recall them. Jillian leans forward, drawing in a breath Mary feels herself.

"That he's in a good place," she answers, her expression soft and maternal. "Settled, content. And so much in love he's practically floating." Her hands flutter, her ribs expand, and a smile wisps across her features without one thought of holding it back. She drops her eyes, overcome somehow, even though she knows she loves him, even though being with him has come to feel like being home.

"You really think so?" Mary breathes, biting her lower lip in spite of herself. Jillian nods, and her stomach does an odd dance, her gaze turning to Charles, watching as he signs a book, how his hand holds the pen, how his fingers design the words in a large script that's just so him.

She loves him—God, she really, really loves him.

"Mary?" The name jostles her in her seat, a voice from her past reaching for her in the midst of her future. "Is that really you?"

Shit. No. Not now. Not here. Not like this. Never like this. But it is—she knows it before she ever looks up, before she ever takes a fortifying breath, before she swallows down the metallic taste of panic and dread. She steadies herself, gripping the chair with her free hand, plastering a bright smile on her face before daring to look up at the speaker.

"Hello, Matthew," she states, hearing Charles drop his pen on the table as she wills her world not to go black.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After eighty-four years...an update.

“Matthew. What a surprise.”

The words flow out of her with an ease she does not feel. But she holds her insides together, fighting like mad to keep her composure as her past and present collide with unexpected force.

“It is,” Matthew states, looking at her as if she’s grown another head. “What--what are you doing here?”

Her mouth opens, but only air comes out.

“She’s with me,” Charles states, abandoning the book in front of him to give Matthew his full attention. The words are a direct challenge, and she feels their fire prickle her skin. She gazes at Charles, watching him eye Matthew with an edge she’s never before witnessed.

“You’re with Mr. Wesley? How marvelous! Good for you, Mary. Good for you.”

The words are from Isobel, and Mary makes eye contact with the older woman, wanting to jump over the table and hug her for the unexpected show of support.

“I must say, you look wonderful, dear,” Isobel continues, nudging Matthew along as he seems to be caught in the same stupor as she. “Except for your leg. Have you injured it?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” Mary manages, moving her fingers to keep her focused on the present. “I sprained my knee a few weeks ago in the park.”

“My oaf of a son evidently tackled her,” Jillian intervenes, looking up at Isobel with interest.

“He knocked me out of a horse’s path,” Mary puts in, rewarded by Matthew’s mouth dropping open another few centimeters.

“And hurt your knee in the process,” Charles adds, reaching over to hold her hand. His skin is hot, burning hot, even warmer than when they’d been getting each other off last night in bed. “I’m truly sorry for that, darling.”

The kiss to her hand is deliberate, and she gazes back at him, wondering what he’s feeling as her ex makes as unexpected an appearance as his did just days before. He’s shaken, she realizes, nearly as much as she is by this turn of events.

“I’ve told you repeatedly that you’re forgiven,” she states as Charles leans in a bit closer to her than he probably should at his own book signing. They’re creating a bit of a spectacle, one some of the people in line are straining to see.

“I still feel terrible about it,” he states. “Hurting the woman you love is never something to take lightly.” Some stray _Ahhhh’s_ and _How lovely’s_ are heard from those waiting nearby.

“So you two are together now, I take it?” Matthew’s question hovers over the table, his eyes set on hers in some sort of challenge.

“We are,” she replies, squeezing Charles’s hand tighter than she probably should.

“And how did you meet?” Matthew asks, ignoring the remarks of a few disgruntled patrons who don’t wish to be kept waiting any longer.

“At a bar, of all places,” Charles replies, upping the ante for her benefit. “And it was love at first sight, at least on my part.” Readers begin crowding as close to the table as they can, peering over each other to watch the romantic drama playing out in front of them like some sort of odd reality show.

“Don’t be silly,” Mary states, turning the schmaltz up another notch. “I was a mess that night.”

“You could never be a mess, love,” he croons, leaning over to kiss her cheek. The _awww’s_ from the crowd nearly topple them over this time, notching Mary’s pulse forward another few paces.

“Don’t they make a lovely couple?” Jillian chimes in. “Can you imagine how beautiful their babies will be?”

“Wait. You’re pregnant?”

The words are part question, part accusation, and she looks back at the man who uttered them with as much calm as she can muster as the crowd catches its breath.

“No,” Mary replies. “Not yet.” A few mutters of disappointment are heard from the line. “But we’re trying.”

Charles goes into a coughing fit beside her as Rex steps in and forces him to drink more water while part of the crowd breaks out into spontaneous applause.

“Oh my God,” Jillian exclaims, turning on her son with the speed of an Olympic sprinter. “Why didn’t you tell me that the two of you are trying to have a baby? I mean, I’m thrilled, but don’t you think you should propose to her first?”

_Just ask her_ is yelled out from someone Mary can’t identify, but it’s Matthew she’s fixated on, the wedding ring on his finger practically screaming into her face.

“How do you know that he hasn’t?”

For a moment, Jillian looks like she might faint. Charles motions Rex back to his side, pulling the shorter man down to ear level.

“Can you give a us a break?” he asks. “Five minutes or so?” Rex sizes up the situation that has brought the line of autograph seekers to a stand-still as someone cries out _Propose, man!_

“Take ten,” Rex says. “That gives you time to go to the loo and possibly sneak out of here to buy a ring.”

Charles nearly coughs up a lung at that.

He smiles, politely excuses himself from the table, and finally stands to move to Mary’s side, giving her a look she can’t quite read and isn’t sure if she wants to. For God’s sake, she just practically told the world and his mother that they were all but engaged, and for what? To one-up her ex-boyfriend, that’s what.

“You’re not going to kill me are you?” she whispers, trying to find enough moisture in her mouth to swallow.

“Not in public, anyway,” he breathes, flicking a brow in her direction that makes her shiver. He then helps her up before reaching down and giving her the crutches, turning to face Isobel and Matthew with smooth smile Mary knows he doesn’t feel. “Why don’t the two of you join us back here for a few minutes,” he states, his grip on Mary more possessive than not. “I could use a breather, and it seems that you have some catching up to do.”

She stares at him in a half-panic, but he squeezes her arm gently as he dots a kiss to her cheek.

“You’re doing splendidly,” he assures her when Matthew moves away. “You definitely gained the upper hand with the baby and engagement comments just then.”

“I’m just glad I didn’t send your mother into cardiac arrest,” Mary whispers as they move slowly to a small, private room behind the elevators. “Or you, for that matter.”

“Thick skinned ogre,” Charles says. “Remember. And Good God, if you think Mum liked you before, prepare yourself to be doted upon now that she thinks we’re planning to get married and trying to give her grandchildren.”

She laughs nervously, wondering what in God’s name possessed her to tell Matthew that she and Charles were trying to have a baby. No. That’s a lie. She knows exactly why she said it. And she wonders if his resulting reaction will be worth it.

“So you’re not angry?”

Charles pauses and looks right at her, melting a few knots of worry with a soft kiss to her nose.

“I’m not angry,” he replies. “But with my family the way that they are, you might be an engaged woman as soon as my divorce goes through. You’ve been forewarned.”

It’s her turn to cough this time.

“So,” Matthew begins, looking from her to Charles and back to her again once they’d reached the small room. “You’re really together.”

“Yes,” Mary states as Charles helps her into a seat. “We are. Does this surprise you?” He eyeballs her directly before breathing out deliberately.

“Yes,” he finally answers. “Quite frankly, it does.” A vein in Charles’s jaw twitches, so she reaches out to squeeze his hand.

“Why?” she shoots back. “Don’t you think I can be happy with anyone besides you?” Matthew looks from her over to Charles, clearly feeling both uncomfortable and outnumbered.

“Of course not,” he utters. “It’s just that--” He pauses, looking around the room before returning his gaze back to her. “The last time I saw you, Mary…”

“I was begging you not to get married,” she finishes for him. “I know, Matthew. I was there.” His face is red now, the same shade it had been during their numerous arguments. “I was in a bad place then,” she continues, willing her heart to notch down its tempo a decimal or two. “Pretty much rock bottom, to be honest. It wasn’t one of my proudest moments.”

“That was only weeks ago, Mary,” Matthew continues. “Yet here you sit with a new man, looking all put together and discussing the possibility of having children with him. Don’t you think that’s a bit sudden?”

She looks over his shoulder to see Jillian and Isobel chatting together as if they hadn't a care in the world.

“And that’s a problem because?” Her question hangs between the three of them as Charles’s hand squeezes hers.

“Well, it’s not, really,” Matthew admits. “Just very unexpected. Especially after--” He stops himself again, swallowing down the rest of his sentence as Charles meets his stare head-on.

“Especially after the fact that she wasn’t sure about having children with you?” Her heart hammers so hard she can barely hear, but she fights to keep her gaze steady, hoping to God she’s doing a better job than she perceives.

“So you’ve discussed this?” Matthew asks. “Our past history?”

“Of course we have,” Mary rebuts. “Just like I’m sure you’ve discussed me with Lavinia. It’s a part of being in a relationship, Matthew, at least so I’ve heard.”

Matthew nods and rubs his chin, looking as if he’s seeing parts of her for the first time.

“And you’ve decided that you do want children after all?” It’s somewhere between an accusation and a question, and she feels Charles stiffen beside her.

“I never said that I didn’t, if you remember,” she states, her heart cinching in remembrance for the child she lost. “Only that I wasn’t ready at the time that you asked.” Pure confusion gazes back at her from across the table. “It’s a better time for me than it was when we first discussed starting a family,” Mary elaborates. “My business is going well, and Charles is in a position where he can work from home.” She leans towards Charles, reveling in how he wraps her up with his arm, wondering what he’s thinking about all of this baby talk when they’ve only just admitted that they love each other and haven’t even had actual sex.

“But you haven’t known each other that long,” Matthew observes. “Isn’t it a bit hasty for you to be making decisions like this?”

“How long did it take you to propose to Lavinia after we broke up?”

He swallows, licking his lips before staring down at his hands.

“About three and a half months,” he admits.

“And have you ever regretted it?” His eyes meet hers, holding on for a few stolen moments that belong to another lifetime. Everything seems almost surreal, as if she’s having a conversation she’s only imagined in a reality she’d never anticipated.

“No,” Matthew finally states as she feels Charles exhale beside her. “I haven’t.”

“I’m glad,” she returns. “Because I finally have no regrets, either. And that is one hell of a feeling.”

It’s true, she realizes, the reality of it making her skin tingle and her fingers fidget relentlessly. She feels Charles caress them, and she suddenly wants to whisk him out of here and back to her flat where she can kiss him senseless and fuck him into the hardwood, brace or no brace.

“And you’re happy?” Matthew questions, looking at her as if he can’t quite imagine such a thing.

“I am,” she says. “Happier than I’ve been in a long time.” The words are deliberate, but she’s amazed to find they’re also true. She shakes her head and laughs then, wondering just why in God’s name took her so long to let go of a tangled past and move forward. Matthew stands there looking down at her before tossing her a smile that used to devastate her.

“I’m so glad to hear it. Truly, Mary. I am.”

“You should be,” Charles cuts in. “Mary’s an extraordinary woman, you know. She deserves all of the happiness that this life has to offer.” Matthew nods as he rubs one hand through his hair.

“That she does,” he agrees. “And it would seem she’s finding that with you, Mr. Wesley.”

Charles looks over at her and blinks, awaiting her permission before he stands and extends his hand.

“It’s Mr. Blake, actually,” he says. “Charles Blake. C.B. Wesley is my pen name for privacy reasons.”

“Charles, then,” Matthew replies, taking his hand within his own. “I’m Matthew.”

“I know,” Charles returns. A sudden silence descends.

“Well, then,” Matthew states, rubbing his hands together. “I believe mother and I should be getting along. She’s a huge fan of your writing, Charles, but we wouldn’t want to take up any more of your valuable time.”

“Did I ever sign your book?” Charles asks, turning his attention to Isobel. “Please forgive me if I overlooked it in the excitement of the moment.”

“You overlooked nothing,” Isobel smiles, reaching forward to shake his hand once again. “And I’m very anxious to read your next book whenever it comes out.”

“Write down your address, and I’ll send you an advance copy,” Charles states, making Isobel beam as if she’d just won the lottery.

“Thank you so much,” Isobel replies. “I’d love that.”

“He hasn’t even offered me an advanced copy,” Mary cuts in. “Consider yourself lucky.”

Isobel stares at her before leaning down to give her a hug.

“I’m so glad to see you again, Mary. Truly I am.” Mary holds on to Isobel a few seconds longer than she should, fighting back tears of relief that her image hasn’t been tainted for this woman she both adores and respects.

“So am I,” Mary replies as they draw back from each other. “You have no idea.”

Isobel looks from Matthew to Charles then back to Mary before giving her hand a squeeze. “I think I do, dear,” the older woman states before turning her attention to Charles’s mother. “So noon on Monday for luncheon?”

“Noon on Monday,” Jillian returns, giving Isobel’s arm a squeeze as Mary, Charles and Matthew gape at the two women as if they’d all just stepped into an episode of _The Twilight Zone._

“So lovely to meet you, Isobel.”

“Lovely to meet you, Jillian,” Isobel replies. “Just as it is an honor to meet your son.”

“We’ll have to discuss our future grandchildren,” Jillian beams as Matthew’s eye round to the size of saucers.

“Wait,” Mary injects. “Are you and Lavinia expecting?”

He shakes his head, his face turning that deep shade of pink that never fails to amuse her.

“Not yet,” he confesses. “But we’re trying.”

The words settle in without pain, and she breathes in deeply, absorbing a reality she finds fits her far better than she anticipated.

“Good luck, then,” she states, finally able to smile back at him and mean every crease.

“The same to you, Mary,” Matthew states as he reaches for his mother’s arm. “Such good luck.” He pauses then and turns directly to Charles. “Be good to her.”

He then walks away with Isobel in tow, leaving Mary to stare back at another man who’s now looking at her like she’s the cat’s meow.

“Believe me,” Charles breathes with a soft stroke to her cheek. “I intend to do just that.”

* * *

 

“Did your mother really agree to go to lunch with Matthew’s mother?” Mary questions as Charles carries her into the flat.

“Yes,” Charles sighs as he sets her down on the sofa. “She did. It would seem that the two of them hit it off rather well.”

“And you really met Matthew,” Mary states as she leans back into the cushions. “That really happened?”

“It did,” Charles hums. “And we both lived to tell the tale.” His phone buzzes then, and he looks at it, grimacing at the words before glancing her way. “My mother,” he states, holding up the phone in her direction. “She’s letting me know that she and dad think we need to make our engagement official after my divorce is finalized before we proceed with trying to get pregnant.”

Her cheeks heat up with the reminder of the conversation that nearly sent Jillian Blake into the stratosphere.

“I’m sorry about that,” she says. “I’m not sure what possessed me to imply those things.”

“You did far more than imply, darling,” he fires back, making his way towards her before tossing his phone on the table and heading back to the kitchen. “You practically did everything but set a date and pass out cigars.” He makes his way back bearing two cups of tea, setting them down on the table before looking her in the eye. “I had three readers congratulate me after we went back to the signing table, you know.”

She tosses him a glimpse from underneath her lashes, a look she knows gets to him every time.

“Don’t think you’re getting out of this that easily,” he quips, pointing a finger in her direction.

“Out of what?”

“Out of what, my ass,” he mutters.

“I’m rather fond of your ass,” she hums, reaching around out to give it a pinch.

“You’re the cheekiest woman I’ve ever met,” he exclaims as he manages to jump out of her reach. “And you said every bit of what you said today to get at Matthew.”

He then sits down beside her, and she leans towards him, losing her fingers in his hair as she begins to massage his scalp.

“Does that bother you?” she asks, hoping she hadn’t misread him most of the afternoon.

“Not really,” he confesses. “I was so bloody proud of you for standing your ground and looking so glorious that I would have agreed to practically anything you said.” She swallows as her lips find his forehead, amazed at how warm he always seemed to be.

“And now?” His eyes open then, and he stares into her, cupping her cheek as his vulnerability begins to show.

“Now I can’t help but think about how lovely it all sounds,” he admits, his gaze falling to her leg. “Us getting married, having a baby, me staying home to write novels and change nappies while you go off to make London a more beautiful place.”

She leans in and kisses him then, needing the contact, craving the assurance that all of this isn’t a pipe dream she’s construed in a needy mind.

“It does sound rather lovely,” she breathes onto his lips. “But are we insane to be discussing it so soon?” He shrugs and looks back up at her.

“Well, seeing as I’ve practically moved in already…” She laughs then and tugs him towards her, watching him avoid her knee as he leans over the rest of her body. “Honestly, Mary. I’m so very proud of you. How you handled seeing Matthew today…”

“How I didn’t drink myself into oblivion and pass out in your car,” she cuts in, earning herself a soft kiss to the tip of her nose.

“Seeing that the strongest beverage available at the book signing was coffee, that would have been quite an impressive fete,” he muses, tracing a soft trail along her neckline with his finger. “Although it probably would have done Rex in.”

“It’s a wonder he didn’t implode with all of today’s excitement,” she smiles as she touches a dimple.

“When that one lady started giving us fertility pointers, I thought he might faint,” Charles chuckles. “Especially when she started describing the best positions for conception.”

“As if my knee would allow for any of them at the moment,” she sighs, eyeing her brace in frustration.

“As if my back would allow me to try half of them at all,” he grins, nipping her chin with his teeth. “Speaking of body casts, I’d probably be in two, although that one technique involving the bedpost did intrigue me.”

She pulls him into another kiss, her tongue pressing in and initiating a slow tango with his that warms her from the inside-out. God, he feels good, and she tugs his lower lip through her teeth, eliciting a low growl from him that makes her nipples stand on edge.

“I’m ridiculously proud of you, C.B.,” she grins as his mouth moves to that spot behind her ear. She moans as his teeth and tongue tease her, and she tugs his hand down to her breast before kissing him again, open mouthed and heated, desperate for more.

“I was rather charming,” he muses, giving her nipple a pert squeeze as she gently whacks his shoulder. His fingers keep up their work through her blouse, making her want, making her ache, making her want everything and every bit of him now.

“Take me to bed, Charles.”

She traces his lips with her tongue to emphasize her point as his point becomes more emphasized by the second.

“Aye, aye, my queen,” he breathes as he slowly pushes himself into a sitting position before standing and gathering her up into his arms. She laughs as he hoists her closer, amusement morphing into a moan when his mouth claims a spot just between her neck and her shoulder.

“Don’t drop me,” she orders, feeling his resulting chuckle against her skin.

“Believe me, the only dropping I have in mind tonight involves my trousers,” he mutters, allowing his fingers to cup her ass in a tease that drives her insane. The few steps to the bedroom are made in haste, and he deposits her gently on her mattress before going after his necktie with a vengeance.

“I think someone’s as horny as I am,” she teases as his tie is tossed over his head, watching his eyes darken as she slides off her blouse and toys with her bra.

“I’m always half-erect where you’re concerned,” he confesses. “But you have no idea how turned on I’ve been ever since you told Matthew that you were happy with me.”

Her fingers pause as her bra falls forward, half-exposing her breasts as she swallows hard.

“I meant it, you know.” She breathes in and shakes her head in wonder as her brows crease together. “If you told me a month ago that I’d feel this way, I would have said you were insane, but now…” She allows her bra to slide forward until it hooks on to her finger, raising a brow in his direction that reels him in. He kneels before her, leaning in to kiss her shoulder open-mouthed, breathing his want into her pores, upping her craving for him another ten notches. She caresses his head, losing her fingers in thick, wavy hair, losing another piece of herself to his keeping.

“Why do you think I’m so damned aroused?”

His fingers toy with her pants, pulling her upright with one hand while the other eases them down. She closes her eyes, losing herself to the sensation of fingertips on bare flesh, of cool air on her thighs, of a want that goes deeper than it did only yesterday.

“Take off my brace,” she instructs as he eases her back onto the bed.

“Mary--”

“I want to be naked with you, Charles. Completely and utterly naked.” The words hit their mark, and he looks back at her with near reverence as he kneels before her again, kissing just above the brace, turning her dull ache into a persistent pulse.

“We’ll have to be careful,” he whispers as she uses her bra to tug his face in her direction.

“I know,” she agrees. “But I’m tired of waiting. And I need this tonight.”

He rises up and meets her, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue, his buttons opening beneath her fingers, her heart opening beneath his touch. His shirt falls to the floor, her brace is removed with a tenderness that nearly undoes her, and her panties follow with an ease that makes her tingle everywhere at once.

“You okay?” he asks, looking up at her in concern as he strokes her lower leg.

“I’m fine,” she insists. “This is actually a good position for me.” He smiles then and bites his lower lip, standing up to slide down his pants and his boxers, taking away any doubt she might have about just how much he wants her as they pool around his feet.

“You are glad to see me,” she hums as he steps out of them. He's all male, dark hair and toned muscles, and she wants to pull him down on top of her so she can kiss and sample naked skin.

“You have no idea,” he grins, swiveling his hips and prompting her to laugh and lick her lips. Then he's kneeling again, kissing his way up her uninjured leg, pushing it open little by little until he’s so close to where she wants him that she could scream. “You’ll let me know if you start hurting?” He’s rubbing her inner thigh, his thumb teasing her just there, his breath teasing even deeper regions.

“Yes,” she breathes, willing to agree to anything if he’ll just fucking touch her.

“Then lie back.”

His words run over her like warm honey, and she does as he instructs, her legs dangling gently over the side, her body open for him. She shivers, anticipating what’s to come, reaching up to trace her own nipple as he gently hooks her bad knee over his shoulder for support.

“This alright?” he breathes, moving in so close she can sense him just there.

“Yes,” she insists. “Get on with it, will you? I’ll tell you if anything hurts.”

He chuckles, nudging his nose in close, caressing around what’s begging for him, making her throb and clench. Her fingers moving into his hair, nudging him forward just as his lips make contact.

“Patience, love,” he murmurs before flicking his tongue and making her hiss. “I plan on taking my time.”

“Then hurry up,” she insists, another lick making her throw her head back onto the mattress. Soft kisses follow, then another lick, and she realizes he’s sampling all of her, driving her desire up another notch.

“I’ve wanted to do this forever,” he breathes, his words caressing her just before he draws her into his mouth and sucks. “So I plan on taking my time.”

“You plan on driving me crazy, you mean,” she mutters as he places a flat lick right over her clit.

“Yes,” he confirms as words desert her. “That is part of my plan, in fact.” Little flicks turn into broad strokes, and she clenches her thighs as she tugs on her own breast. “That's it, darling,” he coaxes, his voice now huskier than it was just seconds ago. “Give into it. Feel everything. This is for you.”

“Shit, Charles,” she pants, unable to keep from pressing nails into his scalp as her body thrums tighter and tighter. He paints her like a landscape, stroking her artfully, hinting at peaks before sliding to safer terrain, delving into depths that leave her breathless and hot.

“I love tasting you, “ he continues, licking her folds. “Kissing you. Sucking you. Feeling you come apart in my mouth.” Some primal sound claws its way up and out of her as he slides a finger inside, and he steadies her lower body as her hips rise off the mattress, keeping her knee as secure as he can. “Let go for me, Mary. You don’t have to hold back.” Another finger enters just as he sucks at her again, and she lets out a wail she’s sure the neighbors can hear. Then just like that, she’s close, on the edge, skimming her own abyss of absolute pleasure from the man sketching his love for her onto her body. Her muscles tense, her every nerve shoots to high alert, and she tosses her head back and forth, searching, seeking, needing until her mind short-circuits and she explodes from the inside-out.

“Oh my God,” she cries as he laps at her, continuing to press in and out, drawing out her orgasm as long as he can. She lets him, moving with him until everything’s too sensitive, until his mouth is too much. She pulls his face towards her, pushing her upper body up on her elbows as he rises to his feet, depositing her knee back to the mattress with utmost delicacy before leaning down to kiss her open-mouthed.

The taste of herself is thrilling, as are his lazy, calming circles between her legs still helping to coax her down gently.

“You okay?” he asks before she claims his mouth again, swallowing his question whole.

“You have to ask?” she manages as he nips her upper lip playfully. He gives her that lopsided smile that does things to her as she reaches out for him and gives him a squeeze. Shit, she’s done for, and she knows it. “Inside me,” she commands, her tone deep and raw as she draws him towards her entrance. “Now.”

He pulls back to look at her, concern fogging his need.

“But your knee--”

“I don’t give a fuck about my knee,” she insists, devouring his mouth with need gone wild as she loses her fingers in his hair. She draws back and stares at him, all heavy-lidded and swollen-lipped, hair sticking out everywhere and sexy as hell. “But I do want you to fuck me. Got it?”

He chuckles, burying his face in between her breasts before dotting a kiss to her chest and looking back at her.

“Your wish is my command,” he breathes, taking a nipple into his mouth before she can utter another word. He sucks her until she’s ready to lose her mind, then switches to her other breast, making her crave his touch further down. But he backs up then and stands erect, wrapping her good knee around his waist as he positions himself right where she wants him.

“Like this?” he asks, checking to make sure this position isn’t bothering her knee, and she reaches one arm out as far as she can, opening her palm so his face can make contact. He takes her hand and kisses it before letting it go, smiling as she nods and reaches forward to help guide him in.

“Oh my God,” he mutters as he begins to push inside her. His eyes close, his face creases, and she’s mesmerized by his expression until he moves in deep enough that her own eyes roll back in her head.

“Yes,” she replies, her words more growled than spoken. He’s taking his time, making sure to be careful, pulling out a bit before going in deeper, giving one last thrust until he’s buried to the hilt.

“Shit, Mary,” he mutters, as he just stands there for a moment taking everything in. She feels pleasantly stretched, he feels amazing and warm, and she closes her eyes, enjoying the sensation of being thoroughly loved and filled.

Then he starts to move.

It’s a slow dance at first, a rocking and caressing, stirring up need little by little, adding sparks to primed kindling. A tempo’s established, a rhythm is found, and the pace begins to increase, one pulse at a time. Her body lights up again, her nerves catching fire as he shifts to the left then finally to the right and finds a spot that unleashes everything.

“There?” he asks as she practically comes off the bed, steadying her bad knee as he continues to move.

“Yes,” she hisses, the smolder he’d stoked now a full-fledged wildfire. “Don’t stop. Please.” He picks up the pace, raising her good leg a bit higher, allowing him to move in even deeper and practically knocking her out of her own mind. Words fly out of her she can’t identify as he keeps stroking all the right places, as she starts sweating, as curses of pleasure fill the room until she breaks open. She cries out as her body curves in on itself, as wave after wave hits her with force, as sensations overtake reason and she comes out of her own skin, feeling more alive than she has in years.

He’s still moving, but he’s close, she can see it in the tense lines of his face, can sense it in the hard set of his jaw. She reaches up to stroke his arm, earning herself a grunt that makes her feel immensely powerful, so she glides her fingers up and down his skin, wanting to watch him come apart inside her.

“Let go, Charles,” she breathes, feeling the sheen of sweat on his skin. “I want you to.” His brows crease further, his swallow fills the room, then he’s panting, pounding inside her at a pace that’s losing control. “That’s it,” she hums, noticing how he physically responds to her voice. “That’s it, baby.”

“Shit,” he cries out as her nails trace lines on his arm. He’s burning now, his skin like a furnace, this new lover of hers. Then he jerks and cries out, his movements sporadic as he continues to push until he collapses on top of her, all spent, all warm, and completely hers.

“Christ, Mary.” He gazes up at her through unfocused eyes, and she pulls her face to hers, kissing him gently. Tongues stroke and soothe, breaths mingle in spent passion, and he sighs into her shoulder, shaking his head. “God, when you started talking to me like that…” She laughs softly, burying her fingers in that thick hair of his, massaging his scalp until he’s putty in her hands.

“You like that?” His index finger traces a circle around her left nipple.

“I’m addicted.”

They touch and stare, bound by a new connection, one born of shared bodies and private words. Then he pushes himself up too quickly, staring at her leg in concern before melting before her smile.

“It’s alright?” he asks.

“It’s alright,” she assures him. “You didn’t hurt me at all.” He looks at her in a way he never has before reaching for her hands and tugging her upper body gently towards him, dotting a kiss to her lips.

“I never want to hurt you, Mary. I love you too much.”

Noses stroke, foreheads touch, and she closes her eyes to absorb the scent of him, all primal and musky in the aftermath of sex. He’s hers now, she knows this, the delay in his divorce proceedings a technicality, the unknowns before them something they can take on together. It thrills and frightens her, this step forward into another person when her previous journey nearly broke her in half. But she feels safe here with him, with this man who’s seen her at her worst, and she wants to give to him all that he gives to her, even if she’s not exactly sure how to do it.

“I love you, too,” she whispers. “And I know you’ve got me.”

They need no other words after that.

He helps her to the bathroom after fetching a towel to wipe between her legs, but she welcomes the stickiness, feeling sated and treasured in more ways than she can count. He guides her back into bed, this time propping her knee up on pillows before sliding in beside her and holding her close. They’re still naked, still connected, and she smiles to herself as the sounds from the city fade into oblivion and post-coital sleep plots its course. Eyes flutter shut, her mind soaring on the realization that she is stronger than she realized and that this man beside her knew it all along.

It isn’t until the next day that an ugly text arrives, one he’ll try to downplay but eats at him all the same. It’s not until tomorrow afternoon that she secretly contacts Matthew, asking something of him that surprises even her. And it isn’t until morning that the realization hits her out of nowhere that in the midst of taking muscle relaxers and pain killers over the past few weeks that her birth control has been all but forgotten.


	17. Chapter 17

_Our originally scheduled meeting for Wednesday won’t work. It’s been rescheduled for next Monday at noon. Same place._

He digests the words, running fingers through unruly morning hair as his phone vibrates once more against his palm.

_Don’t think your little publicity stunt at your latest signing involving Miss Flavor of the Month has gone unnoticed. Thanks for the ammunition._

Shit. Just shit. Charles rubs his hand over his face, staring back at his phone screen, willing the text to change.

_Why the delay? And what ammunition?_

He pours the freshly brewed coffee into two mugs, adding just enough cream to both while awaiting Freda’s reply.

_You’ll find out on Monday._

Damn it. What in God’s name does she have planned?

He hears noises coming from the bedroom and picks up the mugs, knowing that Mary will try to do more than she should now that her knee is improving. She’s every bit as stubborn as he is, which is both a blessing and a curse when it comes to her ultimate recovery.

“Be careful in there,” he calls out as he heads in that direction.

“I thought that was my line.”

Bloody minx.

He can’t help but smile as he nudges the door to her bedroom open, remembering all that happened between them past couple of nights, all the very things they probably shouldn’t have done but he cannot regret doing. Especially not when she’s propped up lazily on her pillows looking good enough to eat.

“Do you think you could hand me a shirt?” She smiles that smile of hers, the one that gets him every time, especially when her hair’s messy, her face make-up free, and she looks like she’s just been well and thoroughly fucked.

“I don’t know, honestly.” He sets her coffee down on the bedside table, gazing down at her as she tosses him a challenge with her brow.

“Why not?”

“Because then I couldn’t see your breasts,” he replies, leaning down, teasing her lips before trailing lower to claim a nipple just waking up. “It’s a shame to cover up such works of art.”

“These works of art are cold,” she says as he sets his own coffee down so he can cup the other one with his palm. “How is it you’re always so warm?”

“Too much coffee,” he surmises before dotting a final kiss to her nipple and raising up to smile at her resulting sigh.

“Too much something,” she grins as he moves towards her dresser and pulls out a long-sleeved t-shirt. He tosses it her direction, watching her catch it one-handed before pulling it on over her head.

“That’s better,” she purrs before reaching for her mug and taking a sip.

“That depends on who you ask,” he muses, tossing her a wicked grin before sitting down on his side of the bed. “How’s the knee?”

“It’s fine,” she states with a roll of her eyes. “I told you Saturday and again last night that we can have sex without messing it up.”

“That you did,” he agrees, offering his mug up in a toast. “And I’ve never been so happy to have been proven wrong.” They clink their steaming brews together before taking another sip, her brows creasing as he stares out the window.

“What’s wrong?”

He turns to find her watching him.

“Nothing,” he lies with a shrug. He’ll be damned if he’ll ruin what they shared this weekend with Freda’s vile threats. “Just thinking about all I need to get done this week.”

She hums and moves closer to him as his arm wraps around her shoulders.

“Mainly your divorce. You know we’re going to celebrate once it’s final, don’t you?” He swallows down a foul taste in his mouth, knowing he has to tell her about the delay.

“About that,” he begins. “Freda texted me this morning and asked to change the date of our finalization.”

Mary sits up straighter, setting her coffee back down so she can eye him directly.

“You didn’t agree, did you?” He slides down in the bed, rubbing his hands over his face as he exhales loudly. “Shit. You did agree.”

“She didn’t really ask me,” he states. “It was more of a done deal.”

“So she demanded that you put things off longer?” Mary questions, sighing into the room as he nods his head. “Damn it, Charles, you don’t have to let her control this, you know. You were the wronged party here, not her. She left you.”

“I know,” he combats. “I know, Mary, it’s just that…” He pauses, looking directly at her, at this woman who rearranged his life for the better. “I just want all of this to be over.” He closes his eyes, wondering for the thousandth time why he ever married Freda in the first place, fighting down the urge to take a hot shower and wash every bit of her away.

“I know you do,” Mary returns. “So do I. But you don’t have to let her push you around, Charles. She doesn’t get to be in charge of your divorce.” Her eyes stare back at him, into him, and he leans forward to kiss her, to make certain she’s still there, to assure himself that she’s not going to get up and walk out the door and leave him.

“I know,” he concedes with a sigh. “You’re right. It’s just that Elliot really knows what he’s doing when it comes to divorces, and, well, I don’t.”

She looks down at her hands then back at him.

“Lucy says you need a better lawyer.”

“Lu is probably right. I mean, John means well, but he’s having a difficult time holding his own against Elliot.” He rubs his fingers over his scalp before taking another drink of coffee, wishing he’d taken his sister and brother-in-law’s counsel months ago.

“Then hire another one.”

Her fingers trail up his arm, just as they had last night, and he closes his eyes, absorbing her touch, wishing he could rewrite his past with Freda just so Mary wouldn’t have to deal with the ugliness of it.

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” he confesses, laying his hand on top of hers. “And I’m so close to having her out of my life, I don’t want to risk moving backwards.”

“A good attorney isn’t a step backwards,” Mary continues. “And even if it prolongs your proceedings a few weeks, at least you’ll be treated fairly.” He gazes back at her, cupping her cheek, wishing he knew what to do.

“Where would I even start? I don’t know where to look, Mary?”

She stares down at her hands, taking a deep breath before looking back at him.

“Why don’t you leave that to me?”

“You want to find me a divorce lawyer?” he asks.

“No. I want to find you a killer divorce lawyer,” she corrects. “One who won’t let Freda even smell the profits from your book, much less get her hands on them.” His heart swells in his chest, and he looks back at her, wondering what the hell he ever did to deserve this goddess now sharing her bed with him.

“You really think that’s the right move?” She leans forward to kiss him, claiming yet another piece of him as her own.

“I do,” she hums. “Freda’s always trying to catch you off guard. Let’s turn the tables on her and see how she likes it.” Her grin is wicked, her logic nearly as tempting as her lips.

“Alright,” he returns. “I’ll leave this up to you, my queen.”

“I’m rather good at leaving you up,” she hums, sliding long fingers just inside his boxers, nearly making him slosh his coffee all over the mattress.

“Yes,” he practically squeaks. “So I’ve noticed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have breakfast to cook.”

“Eggs and bacon?” she asks as he stands up and makes his way to her side of the bed, extending a hand to help her maneuver.

“I was contemplating French Toast,” he replies. “Something about an incredible night of sex has just put me in the mood for it.”

“Interesting,” she hums, leaning into him just so. “You didn’t say that yesterday morning.”

“Perhaps my cravings are subject to change,” he grins, rewarded by a smirk so loaded it could fire at point blank range.

“Your cravings are far too predictable,” she shoots. “And they usually involve my breasts. But French Toast does sound lovely. Can you make mine stuffed?”

“I’ll stuff your toast anytime,” he smiles, holding her securely against him as his mouth descends on hers.

God, he loves her.

Breakfast is eaten, dishes placed in the dishwasher when he receives another text. He presses his lips together, bracing himself for impact before he realizes its from Rex.

_Gildon Publishing just sweetened their offer. Can we meet with their representative for lunch to discuss it?_

“Don’t tell me it’s Freda again,” Mary says, her eyes boring into him from across the table.

“No, thankfully,” he replies. “It’s Rex. Evidently Gildon Publishing thinks I’m worth wooing.”

“You are,” she observes. “Just don’t let it go to your head. You’re far too cocky as it is.”

“You didn’t seem to mind that fact last night,” he quips, walking over to her to drop a kiss on to her head. “Besides, you excel at keeping my ego right where it needs to be.”

“You can thank me later,” she returns, with a flick of her brow.

“I fully intend to do just that,” he says. “What time do you want to go to the office?”

“I can be ready in half an hour,” she replies. “If you’ll help me get dressed.”

“The ultimate challenge,” he states with a sigh. “Undressing you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done, but dressing you…” She tugs his face down for a lingering kiss, one full of tongue and promise tinged with fruit, cream and coffee.

“It’s an order, Lord Ogre,” she states, drawing back from him just far enough to tease. “Not a request.”

“I love it when you’re demanding,” he breathes, giving her neck a quick nip before helping up from the table.

“You love it when I’m naked,” she returns with a flick of her brows.

“No argument there,” he grins, finishing their conversation with lips and teeth rather than words.

He drops her off nearly an hour later, helping her get situated at her desk and checking in with Ruby before he dares to leave.

“Call or text if she needs me,” he instructs as Ruby moves back to her desk with a nod. “You have my number.”

“Stop pestering my assistant, and go to your meeting,” Mary insists, shooing him away like a pesky fly. “It’s a Monday. You and I both have work to do, and we’re too easily distracted by each other right now.”

“Distractions like that are worth it,” Ruby murmurs, punctuating her remark with a smile to let Charles know that he was supposed to hear it. He shoots Mary’s coworker a look before returning his full attention back to his lover.

“I can’t imagine there will be a time in my life when you won’t distract me,” he retorts as he moves towards the exit.

“Every man should be so lucky,” she purrs, tossing him a quirked brow he’d like to catch and put in his pocket.

God, he wishes he could stay with her all day. But she’s right, they both have jobs, one he’s been neglecting more than he should ever since she sprained her knee, so he gets back in his car and makes his way towards his flat, knowing there are documents there he should pick up and study if Mary actually does find a divorce lawyer for him she thinks will do a better job. He turns his key in the lock and steps inside, amazed by how empty and musty this place he calls home now feels.

The silence is almost stifling.

It’s not his home anymore, that’s the reality of it. His new home is a tall, slender brunette with aquiline brows, a razor-sharp wit, legs for days and a heart he’ll guard with his life. He’d be happy anywhere she is, a fact that makes him feel a bit like an over-eager Labrador who would follow his master off a cliff if ordered to do so.

God, he’s got it bad.

It’s then realizes that something is off, things are not right, at least they’re not exactly as he left them the last time he dropped by to pick up some more clothes. He can’t put his finger on it, but he knows someone has been here, almost certainly someone who’s trying to take him for every pound his has and then some with a smile on her face and his life's work in her wallet.

What the hell did Freda come looking for? And if she truly has new ammunition against him as she claims, why would she even bother to break into his flat?

There's nothing here to be used in their divorce, nothing of which she's already not aware, so he shakes his head at the situation and bites his lower lip, feeling decidedly uneasy. He moves to his desk and goes through the drawers, locating exactly what he needs, knowing that the information in his hands is nothing new to his almost ex. Has she been looking for dirt on Mary, perhaps, evidence that they’ve been together far longer than they actually have? Is she planning on setting them up so it appears as if his relationship with Mary had something to do with their separation? Was that what her earlier text had implied? He can’t fathom just how even Freda could manage such a thing when the truth of the matter was that Mary and he met just a month ago.

One month. Christ. There reality of it is almost absurd. But he'll take this sort of absurdity in his life and protect it with all that he’s worth.

It’s then it hits him, the one piece of paper that’s missing, one he’d found by accident, one Freda had neglected to do away with when she should have done. He looks through the drawer again, cursing into the emptiness of his flat before chuckling at the irony of it all. Freda took the record of her abortion--the one thing he would never actually use against her. His nearly ex-wife is truly a piece of work.

He couldn’t bring himself to even consider introducing the incident into their proceedings. Discovering that she’d aborted their child without discussing it with him is a personal pain, one he nurses privately and has spoken of to one person. Only Mary is aware of what happened, and their shared pain over lost children helps her understand why he refuses to let something so intimate become a legal weapon. A child is too pure for the ugliness between himself and Freda. He could never allow his baby to be used as a point of contention, whether or not that child was ever given a fair chance at life.

He shakes his head again, puffing the breath he hasn’t realized he’s been holding out of his cheeks, thanking God or whoever is listening that Freda walked out of his life and that Mary waltzed into it. He knows he doesn’t deserve her, but he’s too addicted to change their course now. And with that, he places what he needs into his briefcase, walks out of his flat and locks the door behind him.

* * *

 

She can’t believe what she’s about to do. If anyone had even suggested this course of action only last week, she would have blown them off and sworn they were delusional. But a lot happened this weekend, many things of significance, in fact. And if her encounter with Matthew has opened a door that just might help her find a suitable attorney for Charles, then she’s going to step through it.

_I’m so sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you’d mind offering me a piece of legal advice?_

Her thumb hesitates over the _Send_ button, her teeth worrying her lip as she takes a deep breath. This is for Charles, she reminds herself, so he can finally be free, so the two of them can move forward rather than being caught in the quagmires of their respective pasts. How odd that the very man whose memory bound her for far too long could actually now provide her with the means of moving past him altogether. She swallows hard and sends the text.

The same email is perused at least three times as she awaits Matthew’s reply, her stomach twisting nervously as she anticipates his response. Things had been left in a good place between them on Saturday, at least a far better place than which they’d found themselves for over a year. Would he see her text as a clingy measure, a means of luring him back into her life when they’d worked so hard to be free of each other? She sighs, knowing that second-guessing herself will get her nowhere when her phone alerts her of his reply.

_Mary. What a lovely surprise to hear from you. What sort of advice do you need?_

Thank God.

_A friend of mine needs a good divorce lawyer. Any recommendations?_

She can’t bring herself to mention that the lawyer is for Charles, to alert Matthew to the fact that the man she supposedly is trying to get pregnant by is actually still legally married to someone else.

It’s then that it hits her. Since her accident, she’s been horribly negligent about taking her birth control pills. Her eyes widen, her throat goes dry, and her hand flies down to her middle as she tries to work out dates in her brain. Was she fertile last night? Or the night before? Is it possible that their first weekend of sex has left a little something behind inside of her, a little something that will only continue to grow? Her phone vibrates again, jerking her out of her reverie as she stares down at it unseeing, finally picking it up so she can read what Matthew has to say.

_My top recommendation would be Jane Brandon. She’s smart, no-nonsense, and fights like hell for her client’s best interests._

_Jane Brandon_ , Mary whispers to herself, trying to push worries that could be completely unfounded out of her head. She does a quick Google search, finding the woman’s listing with ease, clicking on the link to her practice just as her phone buzzes again.

_If you’d like, I can send her a quick note. Tell her a friend of mine might be contacting her._

_A friend of mine_. Words she’d never anticipated to hear from Matthew allow her to breathe with ease, at least for a few seconds.

_Please. That would be lovely. Thank you!_

She gazes at the lawyer’s photograph, liking the polished look of the woman she’d guess to be in her mid-fifties, thinking to herself that a female attorney might be beneficial for Charles in going up against his ex-wife.

_I just shot her an email. I’d wait an hour or so then have your friend give her a call. Make certain they mention my name so her call will get through. Jane’s a busy woman and tends to stay in demand._

She takes a deep breath, realizing that Matthew assumed she is asking for a female friend rather than for Charles. Another wave of relief floods her insides, and she knows full well that she herself will make the initial call, uncertain as to whether or not she’ll tell Charles just who he has to thank for the favor. Things are good between them--wonderful, in fact. There’s no need to muddy the waters with mentions of her ex when his has already piled his plate full.

“Do you want me to order lunch?”

Ruby’s question catches her off guard, and her stomach does a somersault as her carelessness last night strikes her again. Her hand moves to her waist as she takes a drink of water, prompting her assistant to stare back at her in concern.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, Ruby,” Mary answers. “I’m fine. My stomach just feels a bit off at the moment.”

The younger woman’s round to the size of a pair of ripe limes.

“Oh my God. Are you pregnant?”

Mary nearly spews the water out of her nose, choking on it instead, taking another gulp to try to chase down the first.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Mary insists as Ruby hovers over her, making certain that she can breathe properly.

“Okay,” Ruby says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take you by surprise like that. But are you?”

She breathes out her nose and swallows again, clearing her throat as she tries to salvage at least a shred of composure.

“No,” Mary insists. “At least I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you said your stomach was off,” Ruby replies. “And with Mr. Hot Stuff at your every beck and call, well…” She shrugs and looks back at Mary, biting her lower lip. 

“Just because my stomach turned over doesn’t mean I’m pregnant,” Mary insists. Ruby takes a step closer and raises a brow to meet Mary’s.

“But you could be?”

“Charles and I are having sex, and as far as I know there’s no reason why I can’t conceive,” Mary states. “So yes, it’s possible. Just neither probable nor very likely.”

The women stare at each other until Ruby puffs out a breath and raises her phone.

“So lunch?” she asks. “I can order from that Vietnamese place you like.”

She’s tempted by the allure of warm broth and vegetables, her pulse settling back into a normal rhythm as her mouth begins to water.

“Pho sounds wonderful,” Mary says, leaning back in her chair, hoping that any and all conversation about her possible pregnancy was now over and done with.

“I thought it might,” Ruby smiles, still eyeing her a bit too closely for Mary’s liking. “I’ll call it in and head out to pick it up in a few.”

Mary breathes in and out as her assistant leaves her office, and she rubs her temples while no one is watching, hoping the dull headache that just started behind her eye sockets will go away with some lunch and time alone. She stares at her clock, noting that only ten minutes have passed since Matthew last texted her, so she opens another file on her laptop, filling her mind with the Langley House project as best as she can.

At least she can pretend to be productive, even if her mind is distracted by divorces, lawyers and neglected birth control. But productivity is just an illusion, and she knows it, so after a mere twenty-five minute wait, she picks up the phone and calls Jane Brandon, hoping that she’ll actually manage to accomplish one thing of worth today.

* * *

 

“Charles. There you are!”

Rex waves at him as Charles crosses the room to their table, shaking the man’s hand before offering his to Gildon Publishing’s representative. She’s a petite strawberry blonde with merry blue eyes that he swears nearly twinkle in the restaurant’s lighting.

“Mr. Wesley,” she says, shaking his hand with a smile. “Lavinia Crawley. What an honor to meet you.”

He freezes in his spot, his heart taking off like a prized Thoroughbred at The Kentucky Derby.

“Miss Crawley,” he states, forcing himself to smile, knowing to himself that there’s no way in hell that this Lavinia isn’t Matthew’s Lavinia. After all, how many Lavinia Crawleys can there be out there, especially ones that fit the age and demographic bracket that would most likely match Matthew’s wife?

Has the universe recently gone mad, at least where he’s concerned?

“It’s Mr. Blake, actually. Charles Blake.” She nods as he sits, accepting the offered glass of water from their waiter and taking a rather deep gulp.

“I believe my husband and mother-in-law had the honor of recently meeting you,” Lavinia continues. “At your book signing on Saturday.”

He looks back at her, wondering what she knows, wondering just what Matthew told her, completely uncertain of what to say.

“If your mother-in-law is my mother’s new best friend, then I must tell you that she’s a delightful woman, indeed.” He looks at his watch before returning his attention back to her. “I daresay they’re having lunch together even as we speak.”

Lavinia smiles at this, her eyes narrowing slightly as if sizing up what’s to be said next.

“Isobel is a big fan of yours,” she states, picking up her own water glass and taking a sip. “I haven’t told her about Gildon’s interest in publishing your work yet, for I fear if you decide to go with someone else, she’ll be horribly disappointed.” He inclines his head in polite acknowledgement.

“I’m curious as to what Gildon has to offer,” he states, wondering if their personal lives will play any part of further conversation. Did Matthew tell his wife about seeing Mary, about how the three of them met quite unexpectedly, about the conversation they had back in the private meeting room, about how pasts were faced head-on in a discussion that focused on the present? Do the details of their lovers’ intermingled pasts have anything to do with the fact that she--Lavinia Crawley--is the face of Gildon Publishing currently sitting across from him and wearing a smile that reminds him uncannily of a young Mrs. Claus? Does she feel threatened now that Mary and Matthew are once again on cordial ground?

For that matter, does he?

He shakes his head, remembering what happened in her bed the past two nights, remembering _I love you’s_ and kisses and discussions about the possibility of having children in the future. He envisions how she looked as she broke apart around him, how she clinged to him just as tightly as he held on to her, how she marked him mind, body and soul as she breathed his name and urged him to come inside her.

Christ, he loves Mary.

“I’m glad,” Lavinia smiles. “Because I plan on making you an offer that you cannot refuse.”

He blinks and refocuses on his current surroundings, smiling at Lavinia as he attempts to settle his mind. But he cannot help but wonder what Mrs. Crawley thinks about his lover. And regardless of the deal presented to him today, will it be worth accepting if it means that he’d be dealing with Matthew’s wife on a regular basis? How will Mary feel about all of this?

How the hell is he supposed to know when he’s not even certain of how he feels about it himself?

“Then let’s hear it,” Rex states as the waiter returns to their table. “After we place our orders, that is.”

Lavinia tosses him a look he can’t quite decipher, and he silently curses to himself, knowing he should tell Mary about this coincidence but wanting to spare her from any further complications when he’s already made her life complicated enough.

Shit. This isn’t what he’d been expecting at all. What a day it’s shaping up to be.

* * *

 

“Here. Let me.”

Mary reaches up to straighten his tie, fixing it as they wait to be called back into Jane Brandon’s office.

“Do I look less ogrish?” he asks, trying to smile through his nerves.

“Yes, actually,” she replies. “You might actually pass for a toad today.”

He leans forward and dots a kiss to her lips, tossing her a sideways smile that makes her grin.

“I never thought I’d see this day,” he hums as she steps back to inspect her work. “Shall I prepare a speech for the occasion?”

“Save the speeches for Miss Brandon,” Mary advises, looking at the lawyer’s door and willing it to open.

“And my ogrish side for you?” he teases, earning himself a clipped brow he’d like to eat.

“I suppose it’s my lot in life,” she states with an impassioned sigh. “Only we ice queens have the fortitude required to kiss an ogre.”

“And only we ogres know how to make an Ice Queen beg for mercy,” he whispers. “Over and over again.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she tosses back, doing her best to look unaffected. But he spies the slight blush creeping up her neck, and he wants to kiss it, to kiss her, to pull her to him and shut out the rest of the world, even though he knows now is neither the time nor the place. So he clears his throat and breathes in and out, allowing Mary to see to his hair yet again.

“I thought you said I achieved toad status,” he says as she draws her hands away from him.

“For Miss Brandon, I think we should strive for a prince.” He looks at her and sighs, his shoulders slumping forward as his past hits him with force.

“Then I’m doomed,” he states.

“Hardly,” she hums, cupping his cheek with her palm, melting his misgivings with a smile he lets pour over him like warm cider.

He’d been amazed at how quickly Mary had located Miss Brandon, had been shocked by how easily they’d managed to get an appointment only two days later.

“How did you find her?” he’d asked while cooking dinner Monday night.

“A friend with inside information,” she teased, doing her best to keep her tone light and her implications Matthew-free. “Unfortunately, many people have personal experiences with divorce.”

“Well I appreciate it more than you know,” he’d hummed, setting down his spatula to kiss her thoroughly.

She wishes she didn’t feel so guilty about the whole damned thing.

“Mr. Blake?”

A blonde woman of average height walks towards them bedecked in a tasteful green suit and cream pumps.

“Miss Brandon,” Charles says, taking her extended hand and shaking it. “Thank you so much for working us in.”

“Please,” Miss Brandon states as she offers her hand to Mary. “Call me Jane. And you must be Mary.”

“Yes,” Mary replies, shaking the woman’s hand, reassured by the strength of her grip. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“Don’t be too pleased until we get what you’ve come for,” Jane states, motioning the three of them towards her office. “Shall we?”

Mary swallows hard as Charles reaches out for her hand, his fingers cooler than she’s ever felt them. If she hadn’t realized before just how terrified he’s been, the fact that his natural body heat has deserted him makes it painfully clear.

God, she hates Freda.

“I’m certain I can help you,” Jane states forty-five minutes later after reviewing his documents and talking with both of them extensively. “Your soon to be ex-wife clearly instigated the separation and divorce proceedings, and she’s currently engaged to Elliot Wafford.” The lawyer chuckles to herself as she leans back in her leather desk chair. “That man hates me. You should know that before we proceed.”

“Whatever for?” Mary asks, glad to feel heat returning to Charles’s extremities.

“Because I always beat him,” Jane states. “Elliot knows that if I’m representing the other party in a divorce hearing, it’s time for him to either drop back and punt or give my client exactly what he or she wants.”

Mary watches as the lawyer slides her feet out of her shoes, tossing them towards her bookcase without a single thought.

“I hate those bloody shoes,” Jane murmurs as she studies a page from Charles’s file. “High heels are a means of torturing women disguised as high fashion. They were clearly designed by men.”

Mary smiles and stares down at her own heels, receiving a half-grin from Charles as he tosses her a wink.

“So you don’t think there’s anything to this current threat of Freda’s?” he asks as he shifts in his seat.

“Her so-called ammunition?” Jane questions. “If you mean the fact that the two of you appeared in a few threads on social media after your book signing, then no. Your divorce is already in the works, and you didn’t meet until one month ago. Regardless of whether or not you’re actually serious about trying to start a family so early in a relationship has no bearing on all that has already transpired. Although personally, I’d recommend a few more months of birth control, just to be sure, regardless of just how adorable your readers seem to think you are.”

It’s now Mary’s turn to shift in her seat.

“That being said,” Jane continues, “I would advise that the pair of you keep a low profile until everything is official. It will make things easier for everyone.”

“We can do that,” Charles says, giving Mary’s hand a soft squeeze. “I’m spending most of my time these days on my laptop writing, and I don’t have another book signing scheduled for a month.”

“Good,” Jane returns, checking her calendar. “Alright then. Shall we see about scheduling a meeting with Elliot and Freda three weeks from today? Two o'clock?”

Mary sits up straighter in time with Charles.

“Why so long?” she asks.

“Because my schedule is already quite full,” Jane replies. “It also gives the two of them some time to stew in the knowledge that I’m now representing you, a fact that will annoy the shit out of Elliot.”

The lawyer tosses them a wink, and Charles actually chuckles for the first time today. Mary watches as his shoulders begin to relax, as the lines on his face begin to soften, as stress visibly begins a slow descent from his body, muscle by muscle, limb by limb.

“Three weeks from today it is,” Charles says, letting go of her hand to plug the date into his phone. “Do I need to do anything between now and then?”

“Just live your lives,” Jane replies with a shrug. “And refrain from any public displays of physical affection.”

“You’ve got it,” he returns as they stand and shake the lawyers hand.

“I like her,” he states a few minutes later as he helps Mary into his car. “Thank you for locating her, darling.”

“I like her, too,” Mary says as she fastens her seat belt. “And I think the fact that you’re being represented by a woman will throw Freda for a loop.” He chuckles as he puts the key in the ignition.

“I’d rather throw her to the sharks,” he admits, looking a bit sheepish at his own words.

“Get in line,” she quips, earning herself a bright smile before he pulls into traffic. “But seriously,’ he continues as he looks into the rear-view mirror.

“Thank you for this, Mary. I don’t know what sort of magic you wielded to get us a meeting with her so quickly, but I feel more optimistic about this divorce than I ever have.”

She holds her breath, the truth of Matthew’s involvement dangling on the tip of her tongue like bait on a hook.

“I’m glad,” she finally states. “You’d resigned yourself to defeat, which is completely unlike you in most circumstances. By hiring Miss Brandon, you’ve finally evened the playing field, and that’s going to drive Freda insane.” He finds her hand and brings it to his lips, kissing it tenderly without taking his eyes off of the road.

“To even playing fields,” he muses, wondering what’s stopping him from telling her about his meeting with Lavinia two days ago.

“To even playing fields,” she returns, wishing she had the nerve to tell him about contacting Matthew to find a good lawyer.

They make love slowly that night, cresting and coasting into each other, her thoughts more at ease since she’s resumed taking her birth control pills, her mind still unsure if the precaution is too little too late. He cradles her into his chest when they’re both spent and sated, convincing himself that tomorrow he’ll tell her of his newly forged work relationship with Lavinia, hoping she won’t skin him alive at the knowledge that he didn’t speak of it immediately. They toss and turn until each one of them finally surrenders to the sleep of the guilty, taunted by hovering secrets and what remains unspoken as former lovers goad their sleep in fitful dreams,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer's note: The amazing Emma Thompson is my inspiration for Jane Brandon. :) Thanks so much for reading!


	18. Chapter 18

_You’ve hired a new lawyer? At this stage in the game? Wtf, Charles?_

He reads the text, running fingers through his hair as Mary shoots him a curious glance.

“Freda,” he states, receiving a more than appropriate eye roll from his girlfriend. “Evidently she’s not too keen on the fact that I’ve hired a new lawyer.”

Mary pats the spot on the sofa beside her, so he abandons the dinner dishes and plops down right where she offered.

_I’m glad you and Elliott received word so quickly. I’ll see you in three weeks._

“Outstanding answer,” Mary says as he wraps one arm around her. “She honestly has some nerve texting you the way that she does.”

He puffs out his cheeks as he exhales.

“She isn’t very cordial,” he admits, chuckling at the incredulous look staring back at him.

“She’s a bitch,” Mary states. “And you honestly don’t have to respond to anything she sends you. You’d be within your rights to block her number altogether.”

His phone vibrates as if on queue.

_Jane Brandon of all people. You must be feeling terribly desperate._

“She doesn’t like our choice of lawyers,” Mary observes with a small smile. “That thrills me.”

“Me, too,” he grins, kissing the top of her head. “I felt like yesterday’s meeting went very well, and Jane sent me an encouraging email earlier today.”

“You look less stressed,” Mary states.

“I am less stressed,” he returns. “Thanks to you and your friend who recommended her.”

Matthew’s name sits on the tip of her tongue, and she breathes in, garnering the courage to let it slide off and rid her of the unnecessary guilt she’s been carrying. But just as a sentence begins to take shape, Charles’s phone vibrates again.

_If this is a scare tactic on your part, it isn’t working._

“Don’t reply to that,” Mary advises. “The fact that she sent it at all means she’s terrified.”

He grins before biting his lower lip.

“Do you really think so?’

“Yes,” she hums. “I really think so.” She burrows into his side, revelling in his warmth, his clean, spicy scent, and she kisses his freshly shaven cheek, adoring the way his dimple forms beneath her lips.

“Watch it, your majesty,” he breathes. “We need to leave in less than an hour, and your lips hovering on my skin like that are giving me ideas.”

“What a coincidence,” she returns. “I’ve had ideas all morning.”

He chuckles before leaning over to claim her mouth, to trail his tongue over her lips, to probe, suck and kiss her senseless until she’s pressed into the cushions, half-breathless and more than a little turned on.

“Your ideas will be the death of me,” he whispers before finding her spot near her ear. Something between a low growl and a moan rises up and out of her, and he shudders, his skin already warmer than it had been but seconds ago. “How fast can you get ready?”

“That depends on how fast you can get me to scream.”

It doesn’t take him long at all.

“Only ten minutes behind schedule,” he observes as they pull in to park in front of her studio. “I believe we set a new record this morning.”

“Someone’s feeling smug,” she returns as he turns off the ignition.

“Someone’s feeling grateful,” he amends, leaning over to kiss her. Her hands reach up to cup his face as lips tease and feather across each other. Then he’s out of the car, opening her door, escorting her inside even though there’s really no need.

“No Ruby today?” he asks, looking concerned as he scans her office.

“She woke up with a fever and sore throat,” Mary says as she makes her way to her desk. “I told her to stay home and go to the doctor.”

“Wise move,” Charles replies. “God knows the last thing either one of us needs is to get sick.”

“Precisely,” she returns as she turns on her computer. “And no, before you ask.”

“No what?” he questions.

“No, I don’t need you to stay here with me,” she states, watching his brows crease in concern. “Charles, I’m getting around just fine with my cane. Besides, most of the work I need to get done today I do can be done from this desk. So you see, you don’t need to worry.”

He sighs, rubbing his hand over his scalp.

“I can write from here,” he says. “I mean, Ruby’s desk is unattended today…”

“Yes, it is,” she returns. “But aren’t you supposed to meet with the rep from Gildon again in a couple of hours?”

He shifts on his feet and gives her a look she can’t quite decipher.

“I am,” he answers.

“And didn’t you say that their offer was both fair and the most generous you’ve received?”

He swallows and exhales audibly.

“I did.”

“Then why would you risk fucking that up to babysit your girlfriend who no longer needs babysitting?” He stares back at her, opening his mouth to say something when she cuts him off. “And before you say anything about the two of us fucking things up here, may I remind you we’ve already done that this morning, and we did it quite well, I may add.”

This pulls a reluctant grin from him, one that unleashes those dimples that do things to her.

“We’re experts on fucking things up, it would seem,” he replies. “Or at royally fucking things up, as it were. After all, I do have the honor of fucking a queen.”

“And don’t you forget it,” she adds as she settles in her chair and eyeballs him directly. “Now get out of here, Lord Ogre, and let me see to my work.”

He hesitates, so she arches a brow in his direction.

“I’ll text if I need you,” she assures him, watching his shoulders slump in acceptance as he leans down to kiss her.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says as he takes a step towards her office door. “You’re sure--”

“Go,” she commands, shooting him a look with which he refuses to argue. She watches as he exits, gets into his car and finally drives away, releasing a breath into a silence she actually cherishes. She wouldn’t trade having him stay with her at her flat--God, she’d miss him like mad if he decided to go back to his own. But she is a solitary creature at heart, and with Charles all but officially living with her now, alone time has been something she’s been sorely lacking over the past few weeks.

Her computer screen lights up, and she begins to check her messages, writing notes on a calendar as she goes. Most of them are from either current clients or suppliers, but there’s one message that catches her eye, one that makes her mouth go dry as she shakes her head in disbelief.

Why the hell is Tony Gillingham sending her an email?

He’d been a fling from years ago, a fling she’d had a difficult time shaking as he’d been convinced the two of them should marry while she’d been convinced otherwise. Getting him out of her life had been about as easy as getting warm gum off of the bottom of a sneaker, and she isn’t at all certain that she wants to read whatever it is he has to say. Dealing with one ex-lover is enough at the moment. Tossing another one into the mix could lead to a headache she’d rather avoid.

Nevertheless, she opens his message, taking a deep breath before daring to read its contents.

_Mary,_

_I know I’m probably the last person you expected or wished to hear from today. Let me assure you that I am not writing in any attempt to rekindle a relationship with you but rather to procure your professional expertise on a matter near and dear to my heart._

_My father passed away seven months ago, leaving me in charge of what remains of our family estate. After discussing various options, my sister and I decided that we would like to refurbish Willington Manner as a bed and breakfast to be opened to the public. It has been her dream to do so for some time, and both her training and expertise in hotel and restaurant management makes her more than qualified to run things here._

_I know we didn’t leave things in the best of places between us, Mary, but as we’re both now older and wiser, I hope we can leave the past where it belongs and move forward in a more congenial manner. For there is not a designer in all of England with whom I would rather trust my family’s estate other than you. From a completely professional standpoint, I do hope you will at least consider my offer._

_If you find that you are open to the possibility of redesigning and refitting Willington, June and I would like to invite you to visit the estate at your convenience. Feel free to bring along an associate or guest if you would like to make a weekend of it. We’re actually having friends over two weeks from now if you’d like to join us then._

_I look forward to hearing from you._

_Sincerely,_

_Tony_

Well, that was unexpected.

She’s not certain just how wise it is to entertain the notion of inviting her clingy ex-lover back into her life, even if what he is proposing is strictly professional in nature. Yet the thought of overseeing the transformation of Willington Hall is very tempting, and a project of this size and scope could prove to be quite a coup for her. She leans back in her chair to ponder things over, knowing she really needs to take on this project, wondering just how she’ll bring this up to Charles when she hasn’t even had the guts to tell him about asking Matthew for a divorce lawyer recommendation.

_Just do it,_ she says to herself, feeling more tired than she should, realizing that keeping this from her lover is sapping her of energy. She’ll tell him when he picks her up, she decides, knowing that the odds of Charles actually being upset over a potential business transaction with Tony are extremely low. He’s extremely supportive of her career, and she never loved Tony. Hell, she’s loved only two men throughout the course of her life, and oddly enough the marriage of one led her right into the arms of the other.

How strange life can sometimes be.

She straightens up then and hits _Reply_ , hoping to God she won’t regret what she’s about to do.

_Tony,_

_What a surprise to hear from you._

* * *

 

“Charles. What a surprise to see you.”

He’s practically nose to nose with Matthew Crawley, having nearly bumped into the man as he turned a corner.

“Matthew,” Charles recovers, stepping back and extending his hand. “A nice surprise I hope.”

Matthew takes his hand and shakes it.

“Of course,” he returns. “I just didn’t realize you had dealings with Gildon.”

Charles blinks twice, surprised to learn that Lavinia has evidently not informed her husband about the fact that she’s trying very hard to sign him on. It would seem he’s not the only one who finds this situation of theirs a bit unsettling.

“We’re in discussions,” Charles returns with a shrug. “So far, I like what they have to offer.”

“My wife works here, so of course, I highly recommend them,” Matthew states, looking over his shoulder in the direction of his wife’s office. “I’m surprised Lavinia hasn’t mentioned this at home, quite honestly. I know she adores your book and said in the past that she’d love to bring you on board.”

Charles shifts on his feet before smiling in what he hopes is a convincing manner, knowing that if Lavinia Crawley hasn’t said anything about meeting with him to her husband, he’s not going to going to be the one to let that cat out of the proverbial bag. After all, he hasn’t told Mary about their meeting yet, either.

Damn it. He needs to do that. He will, he tells himself. Tonight. After he picks her up from work.

“Wait,” Matthew says, rubbing the beginnings of a beard. “ You wouldn’t be on your way to meet with her right now? With Lavinia Crawley that is?”

Charles’s mouth opens, but he shuts it again before clearing his throat.

“I’m to meet with a Mrs. Crawley,” he says, doing his best to sound nonchalant. He’s obviously failing miserably if Matthew’s expression is any indication.

“God, this is about Mary,” the other man mutters with a shake of his head. “Lavinia hasn’t said anything to me about meeting with you because you’re dating Mary.” Charles stares back at him mutely, mouth dry, palms moist.

“Perhaps,” he tries, completely unsure of what to say next.

“Probably,” Matthew corrects. “I wish she would just believe me when I tell her that she has no reason to be insecure,” he continues, staring directly at Charles and rubbing his chin. “I’ll always care about Mary--she means a great deal to me, and we have years of history between us. Hell, we very nearly got married on more than one occasion.”

Charles tries to swallow, finding it impossible with next to no moisture in his mouth.

“But I love my wife, Charles,” Matthew adds, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I’m committed to her and only her. Mary is a friend.”

Charles inhales and finally manages to swallow again.

“And I’m in love Mary, with everything fiber of my being and more.”

Matthew smiles at this and nods.

“I’m glad,” the other man says. “She deserves that.”

“Yes,” Charles replies. “She does.”

“I’m also relieved that at least one person don’t feel threatened by my and Mary’s past,” Matthew continues, making Charles shift uncomfortably on his feet. “We have a very complex history, as I’m sure she’s told you, but when I told her that I was glad to see that she’s moved on, I meant it.”

Something tight loosens in his chest, something he didn’t realize had been putting so much pressure on his rib cage until that pressure was gone.

“And I’m glad you aren’t bothered by the fact that I’m meeting with your wife,” Charles admits. “She’s very good at her job, I must say. She makes a very convincing argument.”

“That she does,” Matthew agrees. “I’ve often thought she’d make a better attorney than me.” He pauses then, looking directly at Charles. “Please don’t tell her that we had this conversation. I’m interested in seeing just how long it takes for her to bring up the fact that she’s meeting with you.” He then looks down at his feet and chuckles. “Of course, if I come clean and tell her that Mary asked me to recommend an attorney for her a few days ago, it might get the conversation rolling.”

Charles’s insides freeze momentarily before everything inside him moves into overdrive. Realization hits him with force just before every muscle in his body lightens as if he’s just swallowed helium. He laughs, understanding that Mary’s been as big a dork as he has, which makes the conversation looming ahead of him far less daunting and more like a game.

They’re good at games, he and Mary. He chuckles again.

“Oh God,” Matthew says, cutting into his private thoughts. “Mary didn’t tell you, did she? About contacting me, that is?”

“No,” Charles answers, raising his hands in a conciliatory manner. “But it’s alright. I haven’t told her about my meetings with Lavinia, either. So we’re even.”

Matthew stares at him incredulously for a few seconds before bursting into laughter himself.

“Aren’t we a crew?” he states. “Worrying over each other when there’s nothing to worry about?”

“That we are,” Charles returns. “Especially since that divorce lawyer you recommended to Mary is for me.” Matthew stops then, his gaze boring into Charles with an intensity that catches him off guard.

“God, please don’t tell me you’re married,” Matthew says. “Mary deserves better than that.”

“I am, unfortunately, ” Charles states honestly. “And she does deserve better than to be mixed up in my divorce--no question. But you should know that I wasn’t looking for a relationship of any sort when Mary crashed into my life. Neither was she, for that matter. It just happened-- _we_ just happened, and the thought of giving her up now because my should-be ex-wife keeps dragging her heels is something I can’t bring myself to entertain.”

“So she stringing things out?” Matthew questions.

“Like a professional seamstress,” Charles returns. “I’ve been trying to finalize things for months now and should have been single some time ago”

“Hence the need for a new lawyer?” Matthew surmises, his eyes still narrower than they’d been seconds earlier.

“Hence the need for a new lawyer,” Charles confirms. “You see, my wife actually left me for a divorce lawyer nearly a year ago, so they’ve been stringing things out as they see fit, whether I like it or not.”

“Christ,” Matthew mutters as something clicks in his mind. “Wait a minute. Your wife didn’t by chance run off with Elliott Wafford, did she?”

Charles shakes his head and sighs.

“The very one,” he returns, gratified to see Matthew shake his head in disgust.

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” Matthew states. “Jane Brandon will eat him for lunch and send you home with leftovers. God, Elliott’s an ass.”

Charles laughs, feeling lighter by the second.

“I won’t challenge your character analysis,” Charles returns with a smile. “And as for Jane Brandon, I simply want to keep Freda’s hands off of the profits of my book sales. She actually left me because she believed I’d never find success as a writer, and now that I have....”

“She wants your money,” Matthew says.

“Down to the last pound,” Charles affirms. “And Mary’s having none of it.”

“As she shouldn’t,” Matthew states. “And neither should you.” He pauses for a moment and nods. “I’m glad you haven’t kept Mary in the dark about this. I might have to hit you if you had.”

Charles stands up taller, looking at Matthew eye to eye, both relieved and more than a little miffed at the man’s cheek.

“And I’d deserve it,” Charles says. “But you’re not her defender anymore, Matthew.”

Blue eyes wince just slightly as a self-depreciating smile breaks out across the other man’s face.

“You’re right,” Matthew agrees. “I’m not.” He sighs and looks up at the ceiling before staring back at Charles. “She’s an incredible woman, you know. Smart, sharp, and soft-hearted when you manage to cut through all those layers of hers. We just always seemed to hurt each other, no matter how hard we tried to do otherwise. It was almost as if we were cursed.”

He remembers Mary saying something very similar, and he suddenly misses her like mad, wishing she were here in his arms right now rather than half a city away.

“Don’t think any less of me if I tell you I’m glad,” Charles dares. “If you two had stayed together, she wouldn’t be in my life right now, and she’s by far the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“You two make each other happy?”

The question hangs between them, almost like a third party spying on their conversation.

“We make each other happy,” Charles affirms. “Happier than I deserve to be, actually.”

“Take care of her, then,” Matthew states with a nod. “And good luck with your divorce, although with Jane now in your corner, I don’t see any way that you can lose.”

“Thank you,” Charles replies. “For recommending her and helping to get us an appointment so quickly.”

“I did it for Mary. She deserves some happiness in her life.”

He extends his hand once more, and Charles takes it, forging a pact he feels down to his marrow.

“I’ll do my best to make certain she always has it,” he states. “You have my word on that.”

* * *

 

“So,” Charles says after Mary fastens her seat belt. “How was work today?”

“Fair,” she answers with a shrug. “I managed to score a great deal with a supplier, and I was offered a job that could do a lot to bolster my business.”

“That sounds more than fair,” he returns. “More like bloody spectacular, if you ask me.”

“It is, actually,” she hums, looking out the window and taking a deep breath.

“So what’s bothering you?”

He’s driving, so he can’t stare at her, a fact which makes telling him about Tony a bit easier.

“Nothing really,” she lies. “It’s just that the job offer came from an unexpected source.”

“If you tell me it’s Freda, I may wreck,” he muses.

“God, no,” she laughs, thankful for the diversion as she inhales deeply. “It’s from an old boyfriend, actually.”

“Not Matthew, I take it,” Charles says.

“No,” Mary returns. “Although I’d honestly rather work with Matthew. At least I’d know what I was getting myself into.”

The neutrality of the words surprise her, and she smiles to herself, knowing she couldn’t have voiced that statement just a month ago. Her wounds were too fresh then, still oozing rather than healing over because of the fact that she kept picking at scabs.

“So who is this prince charming?” Charles asks, appearing more intrigued than bothered at this point.

“His name is Tony--Tony Gillingham,” she relies. “And we were never as serious as Matthew and I were. At least, I wasn’t.”

“Ah,” Charles deduces. “He was besotted and you weren’t?”

“That about sums it up,” she concurs. “He wanted to get married, and I was nowhere near that point, something I told him several times before he finally got the picture.”

“Did you love him?” he asks, making a turn to the left.

“No,” she admits. “He was honestly more a diversion for me than anything else. We went out for a while after Matthew and I broke up for the first time.”

“Rebound boy,” he muses. “I almost feel sorry for the man, being sandwiched between Matthew, as it were.”

“Don’t,” Mary insists. “He knows how to work what he has, how to use those puppy dog eyes of his to his advantage, along with his pout and physique.”

“Eye candy, as Ruby would say?” he questions.

“Pretty much,” she confesses. “I basically used him for sex.”

He hits the brakes a bit harder than usual, and she leans over to whack him on the back as he coughs. He’s laughing, the idiot, so she swats him again for good measure.

“Ow!” he yelps. “What was that for?”

“For laughing at me,” she states. “And for nearly wrecking the car.”

“It’s my car,” he argues. “And seeing that I used to be your man slave, I can see why this Tony fellow wouldn’t mind being your fuck buddy. There are far worse lots in life.”

“Watch it,” she hums, tossing him a look she’s certain he can feel even though his eyes are on the road. “Besides, if he’d been content to remain a fuck buddy, I wouldn’t have had such a hard time getting rid of him.”

“Ah,” Charles muses. “The clingy type.”

“Clingier than plastic wrap,” she muses.

“Did he stalk you?” Charles ask, a measure of concern coloring his voice.

“No,” Mary replies. “Nothing like that. Tony’s harmless, truly, sort of like a giant teddy bear with killer pecs and a tight ass.”

“I like him less and less by the second,” Charles muses, warming her insides and making her smile.

“You have nothing to worry about, Lord Ogre,” she hums, reaching over to give his knee a squeeze. “I honestly would be perfectly content to never see the man again.”

“But he made you an offer,” Charles states as they make another turn.

“He made me an offer,” Mary echoes. “And a fantastic one at that.” He watches her, waiting for her to continue. “He wants me to redesign his family estate, to help convert it to a bed and breakfast that he and his sister can open up for business.”

“An entire estate?” Charles returns. “That is quite an offer.”

“And it's the sort of thing I love doing,” she continues. “Helping old places rediscover their grandeur while successfully transitioning to the modern world.”

He picks up her hand and places a kiss on top of it.

“Then you should do it,” he says. “No question.”

“And you wouldn’t mind me going down to spend the weekend at his estate?”

He breathes in loudly enough for her to hear.

“I won’t like it,” he states. “I won’t lie to you. But I trust you, Mary, and I respect you as both a person and a businesswoman. Besides, you don’t need my permission to do this.”

“I’m not asking for your permission,” she states. “But I would like your blessing.”

“That you have,” he smiles, unleashing a flutter just beneath her ribs. “One hundred percent. The only thing that disturbs me is the possibility of him following you around like a stray puppy.”

“I’ll pack a leash,” she quips, making him chuckle.

“And all this time I had hopes that your leash was for me,” he says, eliciting a naughty grin from her.

“Yours is bigger,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, thankful he doesn’t swerve.

“Of course it is,” he hums. “Ogre-sized, you know. Must keep my queen satisfied.”

“That’s a good man slave,” she muses, earning herself a warm chuckle from the driver’s seat. “You’re invited, too, by the way. Tony said I should feel free to bring a guest or associate and stay the weekend. He and June are already entertaining a few guests then, it would seem.”

“This weekend or next?” he asks.

“The weekend after next,” she corrects as he nods. “I have the yacht show this weekend, and you have a signing the following Saturday. Don’t forget.”

“Rex would kill me if I did,” Charles says, licking his lips. “I like this strategy, better, though. Make Tony the Puppy wait on you--let him know immediately who’s in control.”

“Precisely,” she agrees. “And, if you join me, you could lounge around the estate and write to your heart's content while I scope out the place. Could be quite fun.”

“Makes you sound rather like a burglar,” he grins. “I think I’d like seeing you in a catsuit.”

“Down, boy,” she says with a flick of her brow.

“It’s that big leash of mine,” he returns. “Has a mind of its own, sometimes. Especially when there’s petting involved.”

“You’re expecting belly rubs on this trip?” she questions, sliding her hand down his thigh.

“One can always hope,” he answers, rubbing his hand along the top of hers. “I’ll happily lie prone for you anytime.”

“So agreeable, Lord Ogre” she murmurs, ogling his dimples as they turn another corner.

“I’d love to accompany you, actually,” Charles adds. “Not only am I thoroughly intrigued by Lord Clingy-Pants, but I’d also like to see just how he reacts when you show up with a new lover in tow. Perhaps you should lead me in on a chain, clad only in a loincloth.”

She laughs, and he grins

“He may have one of his own,” Mary returns with a shrug. “A lover that is, not a loincloth. Attracting women has never been an issue for him.”

“Just holding on to them?” he questions.

“Apparently,” Mary says. “As if I’m a poster girl for long-term relationship success.”

His hand wraps around hers before he pulls it back to his lips.

“Or I, for that matter,” he breathes. “But we’re good together, Mary. And I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.”

Her insides feel like warm goo, her mind nearly tingling at the implications just spoken.

“I want you to stay,” she says.

“Then I’ll stay. It would seem I’m your devoted puppy, too.” Everything clicks inside her, and she can’t help but wonder if this is what actual contentment feels like. God, she likes it. It’s a sensation she’d like to hold onto forever.

“You know,” he adds. “You should bring Ruby along, too.”

She glances over at him in curiosity.

“Eye candy for eye candy?” she asks, grinning as he nods.

“Precisely,” he returns. “And she is currently nursing a broken heart after breaking things off with her Scotsman. You’d be showing her a kindness by bringing her along.”

“I might be,” Mary muses. “But she’d overlook the kindness and go straight for his ass.”

“Thus keeping him thoroughly occupied and out of your hair,” Charles notes. “Leaving the art of ogling you in a catsuit up to me and me alone.”

She laughs, she can’t help it, amazed at how telling him about Tony has turned into a game rather than an argument.

“I’ll text Ruby now,” she states, her fingers working even as she speaks. “This just might make her feel better faster.”

“Undoubtedly,” Charles agrees. “A single, good-looking potential fuck buddy with an estate to boot? She may drag herself out of bed and start packing tonight.”

She smiles, now looking forward to a weekend she’d been partially dreading for most of the day.

“Thank you.”

Her words seem to take him by surprise.

“For?”

“For being so reasonable about Tony,” she expounds. He parks the car and turns off the ignition before turning to face her. His hands cup her face, and he leans over to brush his mouth over hers, prompting her to touch his face, to stroke his skin, to hum into the kiss that ends sooner than she would like.

“About that,” he murmurs. “Mary, there’s something I need to tell you.”

There’s something in his voice that worries her, something that prompts her to draw back far enough to check his expression.

“About Tony?” she asks.

“No,” he replies. “About Matthew.”

_Shit_ , she thinks. Has he found out about the fact that she conversed with Matthew? Is he upset? Is he…

“And Gildon Publishing.”

Wait. What?

“Gildon?” she asks, shaking her head. “What does Matthew have to do with Gildon?”

“Nothing, really,” Charles says. “Although I did run into him there earlier today.”

“At Gildon?” she repeats, trying unsuccessfully to fit mismatched pieces together in her head.

“Yes,” Charles says. “At Gildon.” He takes her hand within his and inhales, blowing out with a force that makes her nervous. “Mary, the person I’m meeting with at Gildon, the woman who is trying to recruit me, well…” He pauses and swallows. “It’s Lavinia.”

She stares at him a good three seconds before her lungs explode in laughter. He watches her, uncertain of how to respond until he seems completely caught up in the hilarity of it all and joins her.

“God, are you serious?”

Her question is half spoken, half-chuckled.

“Completely and utterly,” he answers. “You could have knocked me over with a feather when she introduced herself to me. I’m certain I stared at her more than I should have.”

“Did she ever mention me?” Mary asks. “Or our relationship?”

“Not a word,” Charles returns. “So I didn’t bring it up. The first time we met, I wasn’t entirely sure that Matthew had told her about our meeting, and the last thing I wanted to do was disrupt marital bliss.”

Her thoughts begin to blur as they race in continual circles.

“And today?”

He pauses, turning towards her in his seat so he can lean closer.

“Today when I ran into Matthew, he put things together,” Charles continues. “You see, Lavinia hadn’t told him about meeting with me, either.”

“Just like you hadn’t told me about meeting with her,” Mary adds, trying to steady her breath as he nods.

“Precisely,” he says with a sigh. “So you’re not angry?”

She leans over and kisses him, tugging his lower lip through her teeth to emphasize her point.

“No,” she replies, working her fingers into his hair as he leans in for another light kiss.

“And you don’t mind the fact that I’ll be working with her closely if I sign with Gildon?”

There it is, that boyish expectancy playing across his features, the one that always gets to her, the one she fears would make it near to impossible to enforce boundaries and discipline should the two of them ever have a child. She swallows, remembering that it is entirely possible she could already be pregnant, but she shoves that thought aside for another day, ready to tackle something she should have seen to days ago.

“I don’t mind,” she returns. “I mean, I can’t say that Lavinia would be my first choice of people with whom I’d like you to work, but you’ve said she’s made you a prime offer.”

“She has,” he confirms, dotting a kiss to her nose. “It’s pretty fantastic.”

“Then you should take it,” she tells him. “But I’d hold off signing with them until after we meet with Jane, Freda and Elliott, just to be on the safe side. After all, if you’re already divorced when you make the deal…”

“Then there’s no way in hell Freda can try to claim a piece of the pie,” he continues, nodding in agreement. “I like the way you think, Mary Crawley.”

“I’m glad,” she states. “Because there’s something else I have to tell you, too.”

Her gaze drops to their hands, her face feeling hotter than it should. She knows it’s alright, that they’re stronger than this, that she’s acting like a child in allowing fear to keep her from telling him everything. So she squares her shoulders and breathes through her nose, looking up to eye him directly.

“Charles,” she begins. “The person who referred Jane Brandon to me, well, it was…”

“I know.”

Her face scrunches in confusion before relaxing into a smile.

“He said something today, didn’t he?” she asks, feeling like a girl caught with her hand in the biscuit tin as he nods.

“He did,” Charles admits. “Which only made it easier for me to tell you about Lavinia.”

“So we’ve both been acting rather stupid,” Mary observes, leaning into his palm as he cups her face.

“Like a pair of first class idiots,” he concurs. “But if I have to be an idiot with anyone, you’re my very first choice.”

“I’m flattered,” she quips. “I think.”

He smiles, then so does she, sighing as needless weight melted off of her chest, resting her cheek on his hand until her last secret pressed to be let out of its cage. There’s only one thing she hasn’t told him, one potentially big thing that could also prove to be nothing at all. But it needs to be shared, she knows this, so she gazes into eyes that love her, that caress her, that melt her insides until they feel like liquid chocolate.

“What if I’m pregnant?”

The stunned silence that greets her is nearly deafening.

“What?” He sits up straighter after a few seconds, staring back at her as if she’s breakable. “Mary--are you--I mean--isn’t it too soon to know?”

She presses a finger to his lips as she nods.

“It is,” she replies. “Far too soon. It’s just that…” She pauses as her face overheats.

“What, darling?” he asks, skimming his nose against hers. “Whatever it is, it’s alright.”

She sighs and looks back at him.

“I was lax, Charles,” she confesses. “With all of my pain medications, I forgot to take my birth control, so it’s possible that…” She stops again and clears her throat. “It’s possible we’ve made a baby without meaning to. I didn’t even think about it until after--”

His features blur into unspeakable softness as he captures her lips with his own, effectively cutting off the rest of her sentence. She kisses him back, gently, nervously, allowing his breath to warm her face as his forehead touches down on hers.

“If we’ve made a baby, we’ve made a baby,” he breathes, his skin heating up until it's nearly as hot as hers. “I’m all in as far as we’re concerned, Mary, one hundred and ten percent. So if there’s already a baby in the works, then quite honestly, I’ll be thrilled. More than a little overwhelmed, mind you, and completely and utterly gobsmacked, but thrilled all the same.”

Tears prick her eyelids, making her sniff.

“Really?”

The word leaves her in a puff of air, one heavier than it should be that engulfs the two of them like a warm blanket.

“Really,” he assures her, rubbing his thumbs along her cheeks. “If you tell me that we’re pregnant a few weeks from today, you’ll not only make me the happiest man alive, but you’ll likely send my mother over the moon.”

Images of Jillian Blake receiving such news make her laugh and shiver simultaneously.

“It’s alright, darling,” he whispers, holding her as close as he can within the confines of his car. “Whatever the future holds--ex-lovers, ex-wives, unexpected babies, nosy relatives--it will all be alright if we just hold on to each other. Don’t ever forget that.”

A car horn sounds from a few streets over, making her aware of surroundings she’d all but forgotten. His eyes beckon, and she nuzzles her nose against his, trembling as breaths mingle in a dance meant for lovers.

“Alright,” she breathes, clinging onto him with more fervor than she’d admit to anyone. She closes her eyes as stress seeps from her body into his warmth, as tense muscles finally go lax, as days worth of uncertainty begin to form themselves into a recognizable shape. His lips dot the top of her head, and she closes her eyes, absorbing this man who loves her into all that she is, allowing herself to honestly believe that maybe, just maybe, he’s right after all.


	19. Chapter 19

“Holy shit!”

“For God’s sake, Ruby,” Mary whispers. “If you say that one more time…”

“You’ll what?” Ruby cuts in. “Send me to my room?”

Mary eyes June Gillingham’s back, trying to gauge whether or not their host can hear her assistant’s comments, knowing that Tony’s quiet younger sister is unlikely to say anything, even if she can.

“In a place like this, I have no issues with that,” Ruby continues. “Especially if our esteemed host stops by to check on me.”

Ruby wiggles her eyebrows as they continue towards their assigned bedrooms.

“Willington Manor is beautiful, but you’ve seen impressive estates before, Ruby,” Mary murmurs, nudging Charles in the ribs as he snickers under his breath.

“Yes,” Ruby returns. “But this one’s attached to Mr. Tall, Dark, Dreamy and Single.” The brunette looks over her shoulder, trying to catch another glance at Tony Gillingham before they turn a corner. “And God, how that man fills out his trousers.”

Ruby licks her lips suggestively.

“Told you she’d like him,” Charles says, somehow managing to disguise his remark in a cough.

“Don’t act so smug,” Mary shoots back, rolling her eyes at the next holy shit Ruby whispers as they ascend the staircase. She pauses, biting down a grimace as her knee chooses this particular moment to protest all of the recent activity she’s required of it.

“Do you know what it would cost to construct railing like this?” Ruby whispers,oblivious to Mary’s discomfort.

“More than either of us are likely to see in a lifetime,” Mary replies. “One reason I love designing with other people’s money.”

“Here, here,” Ruby agrees before stopping in her tracks to ogle a large landscape framed on the wall.

“Don’t say it,” Mary instructs preemptively. Ruby shoots her a friendly glare and mouths _holy shit_ instead. “You’re sadly predictable, you know.”

“I prefer to think of myself as consistently exciting,” Ruby replies.

“Hmmm,” Mary murmurs. “ I wonder how Mr. Tall, Dark and Dreamy would describe you?”

“The way he was checking out my cleavage, I’d love to know, too,” Ruby replies, tossing Charles a wink. Ruby’s dress did little to discourage such perusal, dipping down in the front to a level somewhere between daring and risquee.

Mary rolls her eyes again before wincing.

“You all right?”

Charles gazes from her knee to her face, and she nods, determined not to let him know just how much she’d love to prop her leg up for a mere ten minutes.

“I’m fine,” she insists, annoyed by the sluggish pace she’s been forced to adopt.

“I still think you should have let me carry you up the stairs,” Charles muses. “Your knee is still healing, and we couldn’t ask for a more romantic vista than this for such a cavalier move.”

“In your dreams, Casanova,” Mary quips. “Now shut up and walk.”

“As you wish,” Charles hums, earning himself an exasperated sigh.

June remains predictably quiet as she leads them to Ruby’s room first, finally smiling as the leggy female surveys her quarters with obvious appreciation.

“This place is fantastic,” Ruby states, making her way to the window beside her bed and peering through the glass. Tony’s outside now, Mary notices, in full view of Ruby’s not-so-subtle perusal. “And the view is second to none.”

“I’m glad you like it,” June replies, blinking rapidly as she seems prone to doing. “I personally prefer the garden view, but there is a lovely copse to be seen from this vantage.”

“I have a soft spot for copses,” Ruby hums.

“Is that what she’s calling it these days?” Charles murmurs into Mary’s ear, prompting her to elbow him lightly in the ribs.

“We’ll leave you to get settled, then,” June states, tucking a tight black curl behind one ear and eyeing them as if fully aware that she’s missing something in conversation. “If the two of you would just follow me.”

Charles’s arm slides around Mary’s back, settling dangerously close to her derriere, and she reaches up to rub her right temple, trying her best to ward off the beginnings of a headache. Her knee hasn’t seen this much activity since she was injured, and she hadn’t suspected that moving around so much could make her feel both worn out and somewhat lightheaded.

“I’ve got you,” Charles whispers. “Lean on me as much as you need.”

“I’m half-tempted to go with that sweep me off my feet move,” she confesses.

“I’ve had lots of practice, if you remember,” he says. “I won’t drop you. I think you know that by now.”

She does know it, in more ways than one, and something squeezes tight inside her chest, still unsure of what to do with this man she relies upon more than she’s ever relied upon anyone. It’s still somewhat terrifying, if she’s being honest with herself, even though it’s also the most reassuring sensation she’s felt in her adult life.

“I know,” she breathes. “But as I’m getting paid for this weekend, I believe I should at least attempt to make it to our room on my own two feet.”

June guides them down a lengthy hallway and turns a left corner, directing them to a door to their immediate right. Mary sighs in relief as they step inside, her knee practically screaming at her by this point, her head now joining in the melee.

“Still no garden view, I’m sorry to say,” June states, tossing them a nervous smile. “If we’d not already promised that room to our other guests…”

“It’s perfectly alright. I actually prefer a lake view,” Mary interjects. God, she’d take a circus view at the moment if she could just lie down for a few minutes.

“I’m afraid that our gardner is getting on in years,” June explains, gesturing out the window. “I know the lake area needs some tending before we open our doors to the public. It has a rather wild look at the moment.”

“Looks very natural, in my opinion,” Charles says.

“Tony says the same thing,” June replies. “But I fear that potential paying guests who might enjoy a walk by the lake would prefer an easily accessible path unencumbered by nature.”

“I freely admit that landscaping is not my specialty,” Mary says as Charles’s grip on her tightens. “But I do have two landscapers I can recommend with confidence who specialize in complementing nature rather than reworking it entirely. Their work is exceptional, and their prices are fair. I can contact them and get you some estimates and ideas if you like.”

“Thank you,” June sighs in relief. “That would be very helpful. There’s so much to think about in this transition process.”

Her knee is throbbing now, and Mary isn’t sure if she’d rather vomit or collapse onto the large, ornate bed.

“That there is,” she replies instead, swallowing down a tinge of bile. “But you have a lovely estate here, June, one with excellent potential. I want to do everything I can to make this a successful venture for you and your brother.”

“I’m so glad,” June replies, tucking another curl behind her ear. “It means a great deal to Tony and me, being able to keep the estate in the family.”

“I’m all for keeping estates with the families who’ve tended to them for generations,” Mary says, fighting down a second wave of nausea. Shit. This is not good.

“I must say, Mary, that I was both surprised and relieved that you agreed to work with us,” June continues, seemingly oblivious to the other woman’s discomfort. “After what happened between you and Tony, I mean.”

Charles’s eyebrow shoots up in her direction, but she can’t worry about that now, not when her legs are melting out from under her.

“Are you alright, Mary?”

“I’m fine,” Mary insists as Charles’s grip around her middle strengthens, his face now creased in concern.

“If you don’t mind, I think Mary should lie down for a bit,” Charles interjects. “Her knee is still out of sorts, and I fear the trip here along with all of the walking have worn her out.”

Mary attempts to look apologetic.

“Of course,” June states, blinking as she moves quickly to the door. “Take all the time you need. Dinner will not be served until seven, so you have a few hours to recuperate.”

“Thank you,” Charles returns. She’s wilting, and he knows it. “We’ll see you then.”

June smiles as she exits, shutting the door behind her.

“Sit,” Charles commands, backing her up to the mattress and guiding her down. “Christ, Mary, you’re as pale as a ghost.”

“I’m alright,” she insists, reaching up to rub her aching head.

“Liar,” he retorts. “You’ve been wincing your way down the hall and rubbing your temples repeatedly. You’re hurting, and you need to rest.”

“I may need to vomit, actually,” she admits. He curses under his breath and grabs the first dustbin he can find, placing it at her feet. He begins to rub her back as she breathes in and out, feeling the acuteness of the nausea begin to fade little by little.

“Better?” he asks.

“Somewhat,” she replies.

“You still look like shit,” he states, earning himself a quirked eyebrow. “Now tell me, do you want a pillow for your knee?”

“That would be divine,” she hums, closing her eyes as he props her knee gently on the softest pillow he can find.

“I’ll fetch some paracetamol from your bag,” he continues, making his way to the bathroom to pour her a glass of water. “If you think you can keep it down.” She nods, so he fetches the medicine. “I might just lie down with you.”

“How late did you stay up writing last night?” she asks, propping herself up just enough to swallow the painkillers without spilling water all over herself.

“Until after two,” he replies. Her brows crease in consternation.

“Then it’s your own fault that you’re tired,” she states, sinking back into her pillow with a sigh.

“And what’s your excuse?” he asks. “You went to bed with the chickens.” His eyes study her intently, and she closes her eyes again, trying to fight back the mild nausea that punctuates his question. “You’ve been tired a lot this week. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“You’re far too observant sometimes,” she murmurs.

“One of my many faults,” he states.

She’s noticed the changes in her body, as well. Christ, she couldn’t miss them, an almost bone-crushing fatigue that would hit her out of nowhere, occasionally accompanied by mild headaches or bouts of nausea.

“Are you late?”

His question is gentle, as is his touch on her leg.

“Yes, but barely,” she answers. “Not enough to worry over. Not yet, anyway.”

He smiles as he gathers her hand in his own.

“I’m not worried, Mary” he murmurs, placing a kiss on her palm. “I promise. Just curious.” She wishes she could be as calm as he, and tears begin to pool.The mere possibility of having a baby right now scares the shit out of her. “But you are?” he questions, gently stroking her cheek.

“I’m terrified,” she confesses as a tear breaks free. He catches it before lying down beside her and gathering her into his arms. “And exhausted.”

“Shhh,” he breathes, kissing her hair as he strokes her back. “Just rest. Everything will sort itself out when you wake up.” Somehow, his logic makes sense to her, at least for the moment. Fatigue takes over as he continues tracing soft patterns on her spine, lulling her eyes shut, and she’s under before she realizes what’s happened, her body lax, her mind blissfully blank.

She awakens slowly, startled to see that she’s slept for over two hours. Charles is nowhere to be seen, and she wonders where he’s off to as she props herself up and gazes blearily around their room.

Who in God’s name decided that wallpapering this room was a good idea? She shakes her head, gratified to discover that both her headache and nausea have receded as she sits up and moves to the edge of her bed. Her knee feels decidedly better, and she bends and straightens it slowly, warming up muscles that aren’t used to being worked so hard.

Then everything hits her again, and she swallows bile. Shit.

She breathes in and out until the waves begin to settle, and she takes a sip of water, closing her eyes as it soothes the slight burn in her throat.

Maybe she’s not pregnant. Maybe all of these symptoms stem from the stress of worrying about the mere possibility of it. After all, she’s never really been the maternal type, has she? It was probably for the best that she lost Matthew’s baby when she did, as much as she grieved the loss in silence. He would have married Lavinia anyway, and then things would have been as complicated as hell. How in God’s name would she have managed as a single parent? Would Charles even be in her life if she’d come as a package deal with another man’s child in tow?

Can she even see herself as a mother at all?

She shivers, not entirely certain of the answer as old pain and regret slide their way up her legs, enveloping her skin like a pair of worn silk stockings.

“Oh, God,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “What have we done, Charles?”

Her hand settles on her stomach, and she tries to visualize she and Charles with a baby. It’s so easy to see him as a father--Christ, he’s a natural, and when she thinks about his mother, his entire family, actually, it all just fits. He was both born and raised to be a nurturer. The manner in which he’d jumped in to take care of her after she’d sprained her knee when they’d only just met is evidence enough of that. Yes, he needs to be a father, needs a horde of children tugging at his trouser legs and snuggling into his chest as he sings them to sleep just as he has her on more than one occasion.

But her? Would she be a good mum?

Yes, she loves her mother, they get along well, thankfully. But Cora has never been what anyone would call a traditional mum. Lord, she’s as far from that distinction as Madonna ever was. And then there’s her practically non-existent father, one who allows his young wife to keep their son away from his sisters out of nothing more than petty spite.

God, what a family lineage. What could she, a workaholic ice queen have to offer a child other than a some decent physical genes and a good sense of style? And would having a baby this soon in their relationship strengthen it or damage it beyond repair? After all, she and Charles have been together only a short amount of time. How thoughtless it was of her to neglect making certain that a child couldn’t be conceived until they were certain of where they stand and where they’re going.

Stress twists her stomach and pokes at her temples once again.

“No better?”

His voice both soothes and unnerves her.

“I was much better just seconds ago,” she corrects, dropping the hand she realizes too late is still cupping her abdomen. “Until…”

“Until?” he questions, coming to sit beside her on the bed. He smells good--like fresh air and new leather, scents that don’t bother either her head or her stomach, thank God.

“Until I started thinking about what a shit mum I’ll probably be.”

He chuckles as he takes her hand within his, stroking her skin with his thumb.

“If you are pregnant, I’d say that’s the hormones talking.”

“And if I’m not?”

He looks right at her then before leaning over to kiss her cheek.

“Then it’s just your overwhelming sense of optimism showing itself again.” She elbows him without force, unable to keep from grinning. “Trust me, love,” he continues. “Any children we have will be the luckiest kids in the world to have you as a mum.”

“Now who’s lying?” she quips.

“There’s that optimism again,” he grins. “And I’m not lying--not by a longshot. If you remember, when we first met, I promised that I wouldn’t lie to you, and I meant it.”

She looks at him and sighs.

“And you honestly don’t regret it?”

“What?” he questions. “Being honest with you?”

“No,” she replies. “Being with me.”

He stares at her as if she’s just spoken Swahili.

“Mary,” he begins, turning on the bed until he’s facing her fully. “I’ve done many things that I do regret in this life, as you well know. But I can assure you that making you a part of my life is one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.”

Tears come out of nowhere, and she wipes her cheek, trying to best to stifle their journey.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever called me their best decision,” she says, swallowing down a sob.

“All the better for me,” he returns, reaching out to cup her cheek with his palm. “Less competition, more time for this.” He kisses her then, a soft touch that borders on a whisper, and she closes her eyes, soaking it in, letting it fill her in ways only he can. “Are you up for going down for dinner? If not, I can always ask for a tray to be sent up.”

“I’m fine,” she insists, standing up slowly so as to not rock the proverbial boat. “Truly.”

He looks unconvinced but wisely says nothing as she wipes her face.

“Perhaps the food will do you good,” Charles muses as she stifles a sniff. “Pregnant or not.”

She pauses, gazing directly at him.

“Do you have a preference? As to whether or not I’m pregnant?”

The question hangs between them as he stands to take her hand.

“I prefer having you in my life,” he answers, his tone so genuine it melts something inside her. “Whether or not we’re expecting a baby won’t change that, Mary. I’m not with you because you could be pregnant, nor will I be in the least bit upset if you’re not and I get to keep you to myself for a longer period of time. I’m with you because I want to be, because I love you.”

Shit. She’s going to cry again.

He holds her through it, stroking her hair, kissing her temple, murmuring reassurances into her pores that wash over her like a warm shower. In the end, they’re lying down again, wrapped up in each other, limbs tangled, bodies connected in a manner she’s loathe to break.

“If we’re going to make dinner, we’d best get up,” he finally states.

“Then let’s do it,” she states, hoping to God her eyes aren’t as red as a poppy.

Getting ready is a rushed affair, and she’s convinced her face still looks splotchy, regardless of his assurances otherwise. But she won’t be late, not when she’s here in a professional capacity, so she lets him help her down the stairs, noting that creating accessible rooms for guests will top the list of recommendations she gives to Tony and June. They turn the corner towards the foyer where they’ve all agreed to assemble, and she breathes in deeply in an attempt to settle her mind and stomach before facing their dinner companions.

“Oh my God.”

A familiar voice catches her attention, and Mary turns to see one very startled female staring at her and Charles open-mouthed.

“Lu?” Charles mutters, gaping back at his sister. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Mary blinks repeatedly, trying to wrap her mind around the fact that Charles’s sister is standing just in front of her.

“We were invited,” Lucy answers, taking a step towards them as the man Mary assumes is Lucy’s husband takes in the entire situation with curiosity. “Rob and Tony are old friends from their uni days. How do you know Tony and June?”

“Through Mary,” Charles answers, leaning in to give Lu a kiss on the cheek. “The Gillinghams have asked her to help them convert their estate over into a bed and breakfast. I just tagged along for entertainment value.”

“If you’re the entertainment, I want my money back,” Rob quips as he reaches out to shake Charles’s hand.

“Rob, let me introduce you to my girlfriend Mary,” Charles says, tossing the other man a playful glare. “Mary, this is my oaf of a brother-in-law, Rob Maguire.”

Mary shakes his hand, watching the man’s blue eyes crease into a smile. The streaks of silver in his fair hair and trim beard only make him more attractive, and she wonders not for the first time at how gray hair seems to compliment men and aggravate women.

“Mary,” Rob returns. “So nice to finally meet you. You’re rather famous among the Blake family, I must tell you.”

The Irish lilt in his voice compliments his easy smile, but he’s watching her a bit too intently, as if he’s trying to figure her out. If he’s a friend of Tony’s, he might well know about their past, and this isn’t something she wants to deal with, not when she feels like shit. But she inhales sharply and forces herself to smile, hoping to God she looks better than she feels.

“That’s somewhat frightening,” Mary quips as Lucy shrugs. “And it’s lovely to meet you, too, Rob.”

“Sharon is going to be livid that Rob got to meet you before she has,” Lucy smiles. “She’s already more than a little miffed that Charles hasn’t driven you up to her place to meet the family and the newest baby.”

“Travelling hasn’t been easy with Mary’s knee,” Charles points out. “This is our first trek out of London since she was injured.”

“I’m glad to see that you’re doing better,” Rob remarks. “And I promise not to lord the fact that I met you first over Sharon too terribly much.”

“You won’t have to,” Lucy says. “The mere mention of it will send her into a frenzy.”

“Then may I suggest that you refrain from texting her about it until after she puts the children to bed,” Charles states. “At least give her a little peace before you upset her apple cart.”

“With three boys, do you honestly think her apple cart is still standing?” Lucy quips, tossing Charles a half-smile so much like his that it catches Mary off-guard. Her mind drifts for a moment to new babies, to the possibility of her own baby--would he look like Charles and Lucy, or would she resemble Mary? Could she possibly inherit Cora’s blue eyes, or would his eyes be nearly black like the two Blake siblings standing in front of her now.

“So Tony hired you?” Rob asks. The words startle her, pulling her out of her musings and back into the present. She shakes her head and smiles at the man.

“Yes,,” Mary replies, getting the word out just before Lucy pulls her into hug. The sudden motion doesn’t set off any nausea, but Lucy pulls back quickly when she feels Mary wince.

“Your knee,” Lucy says. “I’m so sorry, Mary. It’s still bothering you, then?”

“She’s making remarkable progress, but she’s still having some pain,” Charles states, prompting his sister to look back at Mary in concern.

“Then I’ll tell Tony that we need to find you a chair,” Rob says, heading towards their host before Mary has the chance to stop him.

“I’m fine, really,” Mary protests.

“She’s not,” Charles counters, tossing her a brow to meet her scowl. “Although she’s likely to skin you alive if you mention this fact to our hosts.”

Lucy presses her lips together and nods.

“I understand,” Lucy says. “And I’ll say nothing more to Tony. But you have to keep in mind that Rob and I are both doctors, so you should expect some hovering this weekend.”

“Trust me,” Mary returns. “Your brother hovers enough for ten people.”

Charles’s shrug is unconvincing.

“Mum would be proud,” Lucy observes, tossing her brother a grin. “Oh God, wait until I tell her that you and Mary are here at the same time that we are!”

“Don’t you dare,” Charles insists. “At least not until this weekend is over. We don’t want to wake up tomorrow to find her camped out on the Gillingham’s doorstep.”

“Fair point. Knowing mum, she might do just that,” Lucy replies as Tony and Rob walk in their direction. Mary’s stomach sinks to her knees at the look of utter concern on her former lover’s face.

“Mary,” Tony begins. “Why didn’t you tell me that you’re unwell? We could have rescheduled for a more suitable weekend.”

“Because I’m not unwell,” Mary insists. “It’s just that I sprained my knee several weeks ago, and it’s not yet fully recovered.”

“Then we’ll go through to the dining room at once,” Tony insists, turning to give a nod to his sister. “Perhaps some food and wine will be helpful.”

“Thank you,” Mary returns, feeling a bit like a sack of flour as Rob moves to her right side and he and Charles practically carry her into the dining room. “I can walk, you know.”

“Why walk when you have your own personal chariot?” Charles asks.

“So you all know each other?” Tony asks, tossing Mary a quizzical gaze over his shoulder. “What a coincidence.”

“Charles is my brother-in-law,” Rob explains as he pauses to help Mary into her seat. “I’ve only just met Mary, although I’ve heard nothing but raves about her from Lu and her mum.”

“Have you been together long?” Tony asks. His brown eyes bore into Mary’s, revealing old insecurities she’d rather not see.

“A few months,” Charles replies, clasping her shoulders in a gentle yet possessive manner. “Best months of my life by far.”

The two men stare at each other for charged second before Tony steps back and smiles.

“Mary’s extraordinary,” he states. “You’re a lucky man, Charles.”

“Don’t I know it,” Charles agrees. He doesn’t sit down until Tony moves to his seat, and Mary releases a breath she didn’t realize she’s been holding.

“Merely a fuck buddy, you said?” he whispers, smiling and nodding as everyone else claims their seats.

“For my part,” she replies. “He actually proposed a few times.”

A coughing fit catches him out of nowhere. He grabs his water glass and manages a sip as Lucy casts him a quizzical glance from across the table.

“No wonder he was looking at me like he’d like to challenge me to a duel,” Charles finally manages. He blinks repeatedly and clears his throat as Mary pats him on the back.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It was a long time ago.”

She takes a drink of water herself, wishing for something stronger, knowing she needs to avoid alcohol until she knows one way or another if she’s pregnant or not. God, what ridiculous timing.

“Tell that to him,” Charles whispers. Mary casts a glance at their host and catches him blatantly gazing at her. At least he has the good manners to look embarrassed when their eyes meet before redirecting his attention towards an all too eager Ruby.

“I did,” Mary breathes. “I turned him down flat each and every time and threatened him with a restraining order if he didn’t stop asking.” She closes her eyes as bowls of carrot soup are set before them, thankful that the aroma is soothing and bright rather than hearty. The scent of ginger tickles her nose, helping her stomach to settle as she indulges in another sip of water.

“Just how many times did he propose to you?”

Her brow creases as Lucy catches her eye from across the table.

“Five or six,” Mary replies, hearing Charles spoon clatter back on to the table. What a weekend it was turning out to be.

She makes it through the first two courses without incident, her confidence growing as her stomach relishes its new contents. The food is exquisite, and she notices that June finally seems to be relaxing as she watches everyone enjoying their meals.

“I’m glad to see you eating,” Charles muses. “I was half-afraid I was going to have to force feed you.”

“That’s a rather dangerous proposition,” she mutters. “Especially when I have utensils in my hand.”

“Should I cross my legs if it comes to that, then?” he questions. “To protect the crown jewels?”

“I think it’s a bit late to be discussing protection now,” she muses. He chuckles as she takes another bite, savoring the cool bite of greens in her mouth. “Don’t you?”

“At least for the time being,” he agrees, taking a sip of his wine, catching his sister’s eye from across the table. Lucy was watching them a bit too closely, Mary thinks, making her wonder if the woman is aware of her past with Tony. That’s all she needs--Charles’s family becoming privy to the sordid details of her past dating life before she’s ready to share them.

“Do I have something in my teeth?” she asks, feeling more than a little self-conscious.

“No,” Charles answers. “Why?”

“Because Lucy keeps looking at me.”

Charles tosses a pointed glare towards his sister, obviously encouraging her to mind her own business before leaning directly into Mary’s ear.

“I love Lu, but she can be nosy as hell,” he says. “Just like mum.” She hears his sharp intake of breath just as she refuses the next offered glass of wine.

“What?”

“The wine,” he whispers. “God, I’ll bet she’s noticed that you’re not drinking any wine.”

Mary’s brain catches up quickly, prompting her to look at him directly.

“Do you think she suspects anything?”

“She’s a doctor,” Charles replies. “And a damn good one, unfortunately for us.”

Mary sits back in her chair, inhaling slowly, trying to keep everything in perspective. There’s no way in hell she wants anyone else even aware of her possible pregnancy, not now, not when she’s not even certain of it herself.

Especially not Charles’s sister.

“Suspicions aren’t facts,” Mary states. “We can tell her I’m not drinking because of the pain medication I’m still taking for my knee.”

“Not bad,” Charles says with a nod. “That should at least keep her at bay until the two of us know for certain.”

Her stomach tingles, and her hand glides to her abdomen self-consciously.

“It’s a plan, then,” Mary breathes, taking a final bite of her salad as he gives her good leg a gentle squeeze.

It’s then that everything goes to hell.

“So Tony, how is it that you know Mary again?”

Rob’s question freezes her fork on its way to her mouth, and she tosses a look in Tony’s direction, hoping he’ll be discreet.

“We’re old friends,” Tony replies, catching her gaze, his lips pressing together in a tight line.

“You’ve already said that,” Rob says. “How did you meet?”

“We met through a mutual friend one night at a dinner party,” Mary cuts in, doing her best to sound nonchalant. Rob nods, apparently satisfied with her answer, and she reaches for her wine before she thinks better of it and grabs her water instead.

“I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the room and decided I had to know who she was,” Tony adds, stilling Mary’s hand on its way to her mouth. “The rest is history.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Mary states, sipping her water slowly.

“Not at all,” Tony returns. “You were and are one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met, Mary. Time hasn’t altered that fact in the slightest.”

He’ trying to be charming, but his words do nothing but rattle nerves already frazzled and worn. Rob’s staring at her quizzically then, and they make eye contact for two seconds too long.

“Oh my God,” Rob mutters as his eyes light up. “She’s the Mary who broke your heart, isn’t she? The one who kept turning down your proposals!”

A collective hush hovers over the table as Charles sits up taller in his seat. His body is tense, but his expression is smooth as his arm slides around her shoulders in a possessive gesture.

“It’s history, Rob, and one I daresay neither Mary nor Tony would care to discuss at the dinner table,” Charles states. Lucy fires her husband a glance that could kill, making the man lean forward at once.

“God, I’m sorry,” Rob states. “I spoke before I thought. Forgive me, Mary.”

She wants to speak, but her tongue feels numb, her fingers frozen, her mind at a standstill. Just then, the scent of Beef Wellington assails her, conjuring a wave of sickness that tightens her throat and makes her mouth salivate. Cold sweat beads across her forehead, and she clasps onto the edge of the table, closing her eyes as she fights the urge to vomit with everything she has.

“Mary--what’s wrong?”

It’s Lucy’s voice she hears, followed by expletives from Charles as he turns in his seat and reaches his arm around her immediately. She’s hoisted out of her seat and surrounded before she realizes what’s happening.

“I need some air,” she manages as Charles gathers her up in his arms and makes his way towards the front door. Rob has it open for him, and they’re outside then, the scents of nature and evening tickling her skin and allowing her to breathe for a few blessed seconds before the first three courses begin to push their way out of her body.

“Put me down,” she hisses, and Charles does just that, giving her just enough time to stumble towards the nearest bush before her stomach empties its contents. She feels his arms come around her, keeping her upright, rubbing her back, holding back her hair as she puts on a show that nobody expected to see.

“Better?”

His question caresses her, and she inhales before she nods, thankful for the breeze against her neck. Another set of gentle hands clasp onto her arms, and she raises her head to see Lucy staring straight into her.

“Mary,” she begins. “How far along are you?”

Mary swallows at Lucy’s whispered question, raising herself up slowly until she’s standing as upright as she can manage without getting sick again.

“I-,” Mary begins, pausing to swallow and catch her breath.

“You are pregnant, aren’t you?” Lucy continues, keeping her voice down so only the three of them are privy to their conversation.

“What makes you think that?” Charles cuts in.

“Well,” Lucy begins. “She’s as pale as a ghost, she didn’t touch her wine at the table, and the smell of meat just made her ill. I’m a doctor, Charles. I’m fairly certain I know what this is.” She pauses then, looking back at Mary, her tone gentle. “It’s all right, Mary. I just want to help.”

“We don’t even know for certain, Lu” Charles states as Mary feels the fight drain out of her. She leans into him, allowing him to hold her up, wishing to God that her knee will continue to cooperate. “It’s too early.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Rob cuts in, moving to stand beside his wife. Mary looks over her shoulder, trying to make certain that nobody else has overheard what’s being discussed. “Pregnancy can be detected fairly early these days. Are you at all late, Mary?”

“As if she’s going to tell you after you just embarrassed the hell out of her,” Lucy hisses, sending her husband a death glare. Rob takes a step back and has the grace to look ashamed.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, looking at both Charles and Mary. “That wasn’t my intention at all. Truly.”

“I know, Rob,” Charles states. “We can talk about this later. Right now I just want to get Mary comfortable and off of her feet.”

“Can I please just sit down somewhere?”

Her question comes out harsher than she’d intended, but it has the desired effect as a chair seemingly appears out of nowhere, allowing her to sit. She sighs and closes her eyes, blocking out Tony, Rob and Ruby, blocking out everything and everyone for a few blessed seconds as the wind caresses her skin.

“Is she going to be alright? Shall I get her some water?”

It’s Tony who’s asked, and Mary opens her eyes and watches as Lucy nods.

“And some crackers if you have them,” Lucy adds as Tony dashes back inside. “They might help settle her stomach.”

Ruby steps forward, laying a hand on Mary’s shoulder as she bends over at the waist.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ruby whispers. “I would have packed some saltines in my purse for you. I did that for my best friend back home for months when she was pregnant.” She then leans down and hugs Mary, squelshing the words trying to come out of her mouth.

“Ruby,” Mary finally manages. “I--I’m not sure…”

“Well I am,” Ruby interrupts. “I’ve been suspicious since you made me stop burning my scented candles in the office last week and turned down pho for lunch twice.”

Words fail her then, and she just sits there, breathing in and out, wishing everyone would just disappear and she left alone with the night air. Ruby then shiftss her attention to Charles, startling him by throwing her arms around his neck and squeezing him with enthusiasm.

“Congratulations,” she murmurs when she pulls back. “You’d better take good care of her--you hear me?” Then the brunette turns and heads back into the house before either of them can get a word in edgewise.

“Do you think she suspects anything?” Charles mutters, watching in concern as Mary’s form seems to crumple up inside herself. “Christ, are you all right?”

“I’m not sure,” she replies honestly. Everything hits her then--the fact that she’s probably pregnant, the fact that her lover’s family and her assistant are now well aware of this fact which means the Gillinghams will be, as well, the fact that she’s supposed to be here to further her business and her career, not to be an item on display for an evening’s entertainment. Anger and fear begin a disjointed tango through her insides, something Charles seems to sense immediately.

“Get everyone out of here, Lu. Please.”

Lucy looks at Mary a split second before nodding and taking Rob’s hand, practically dragging him behind her. She says something Mary can’t quite make out with all the blood pounding in her ears, but she doesn’t really care as long as everyone leaves her alone. She watches as June and Rob make their way inside just as Tony comes back with the water and crackers, handing them off to Lucy who presses them gently into Mary’s hands.

“These should help,” Lucy states, kneeling down so she’s eye to eye with Mary. “You need to replenish your fluids more than anything right now, so drink slowly. If it’s alright with you, I’ll check in on you later.”

Mary swallows and nods, unable to keep a lone tear inside that tickles her cheek on its way down. Lucy squeezes her shoulder gently after standing upright.

“It’s going to be alright, Mary,” the other woman assures her. “Although I’m sure it’s a bit overwhelming right now.”

“It is,” Mary agrees, wiping her cheek as Charles wraps his arm around her body. Lucy nods and squeezes her brother’s should before turning to go back inside, leaving Mary with Charles who has also somehow been been provided a chair. She wishes she could think, could process everything that’s just happened, but her mind seems to have been reduced to some sort of disjointed puzzle she can’t put together to save her life.

“God, I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head and breathes in slowly.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Getting you pregnant is,” he states. “Or very likely pregnant, at the very least.”

She leans against him, closing her eyes as another breeze feathers across her cheek.

“We both did that, Charles,” she says. “If we are pregnant, I mean.”

She knows it then, as sure as she knows her own name. She’s only had symptoms like this one other time in her life, but then she had no arms wrapped around her in support. No, she’d been alone then, alone and sitting on the kitchen floor of her flat as she’d stared in shock at a plus sign on a stick she’d held in trembling hands. She’d cried then, too, just as she’d cried when she’d cramped and started bleeding a few weeks later, grieving a hidden life only she’d known had ever existed.

“I want this baby.”

The words leave her before she even realizes they’ve formed, but they hover in the evening air like a pair of intertwined moths.

“So do I,” he says, kissing her cheek with utmost tenderness. She smiles then as more tears start to fall, and he gets out of his chair to kneel down on one knee in front of her, taking her hands within his own, placing kisses on both of her palms. “God, I’m thrilled and terrified at the same time.”

She nods. “So am I.” Their foreheads touch as noses slide against each other. “If it turns out that I’m not pregnant, I’m actually going to be disappointed now.” Her own statement surprises her, even as its truth warms her chest.

“Shhh,” he breathes. “If you’re not, we’ll just have an excuse to try harder.”

“But we weren’t even trying,” she murmurs, actually eliciting a chuckle from him. He releases her hands so he can cup both sides of her face, his dimples on full display.

“Shows just how talented we are,” he quips as this thumbs trace the corners of her lips, and she laughs, feeling freer than she has in weeks.

“Is there anything I say that doesn’t inflate your ego?” she questions, leaning into his palm.

“Not that I’ve found,” he replies before leaning forward and kissing her fully. Her arms snake around him, then he’s standing and lifting her up, pulling her off her feet and kissing her like mad for a breathless moment. It is alright, she realizes, this crazy, uncertain situation they’ve created, this child they’ve more than likely made, this life they’re building together one unexpected moment at a time. He sets her down gently, grinning madly at the smile he’s managed to draw out of her.

“God, you are a hopeless romantic,” she notes, prompting him to take her hand and draw it to his lips. She touches his face and smiles, opening her mouth to say more when they both hear a shriek and turn towards the front door. Ruby’s standing there, her mouth agape, her hands framing her mouth, her motion suspended in time for a fleeting second before she squeals and dashes towards them.

“Oh my God!” the brunette squeaks, turning back towards the others who are now following her outside in concern. “You all just missed it!”

“Missed what?” Tony questions, looking from Ruby to Mary and Charles in the same utter confusion she feels.

“The proposal!” Ruby exclaims. Mary’s eyes widen as Charles mutters something she can’t quite make out under his breath. “These two just got engaged!”


End file.
